The Fault in Our Football
by juliees39
Summary: 6 months after Gus's death, Hazel is mysteriously given another wish from the Genie Foundation. This time, she uses it to travel to England and watch her favorite team, The Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers, play a match. Upon arriving, however, she finds that the team has been abandoned by their owner & coach, John Green, who has left to write a novel. Can Hazel help save Swindon Town?
1. Chapter 1

The Fault in Our Football

Chapter 1

The third best day of my life started out, surprisingly, with an automated voice telling me to hold.

"Welcome to the Customer Service Center for the Genie Foundation. Please hold for the next available representative. A large number of people are seeking assistance at this time, and waits may be longer than normal."

Idly, I wondered about the metaphorical resonance of a hotline for cancer kids telling them to hold. Gus, I imagined, would've found it, something about how ridiculous it was that people who had so little time already had to waste even more of it listening to what could barely pass as music. Then again, does anyone really have time, even non-cancer kids? Like T.S. Eliot said, we were all dying, just some of us with more patience. (Well, he said something like that.)

So while Gus would've found some deeper meaning, I was mostly just irritated. I pulled the ear away from my phone. The music was not quite classical, not quite pop, maybe like a classical song that had passed through a pop music machine, something which I'm sure all the big music executives have stored in their offices. How else do you explain Justin Bieber? No voice that beautiful could be borne to mere man.

But anyway, from this auspicious start came my third-best day.

There might be some people who tell you that you can't have a third best day- that there is only one best day - the same people who tell you that you can only have one best friend. Those people are full of crap. To me, best, in this case, is just a word that signifies how awesome the day was, not a ranking, per say. There's no good, better, best in this case. And there are so many awesome days in life – just like there are so many awesome people – so it only makes sense that you should have more than one best day, and more than one best friend.

If this was the third best day of my life – and I think maybe it was, at least of my life so far – then what was the first? Maybe the day I met my boyfriend – or should I say ex-boyfriend? Is it a break-up if one half of the couple dies? - Or maybe it would be the day said boyfriend (I'm not calling him ex) and I went to Amsterdam, and had champagne that tasted like stars and strolled along the river. But no, I thought, I shouldn't make the best day of my life one with Gus. I didn't want to be one of those girls who made everything about her boyfriend, who gave up all her friends and interests to be with him and then sat in a chair for six months straight after he was gone, not to name names but, cough, Bella Swann.

Maybe the first best day would be the day my parents took me to Disneyworld, and I ate a giant turkey legs and waited in a three hour line to meet Mickey which, in retrospect seems like a waste of my limited amount of minutes, albeit not as much of a waste as holding on a wish hotline. But at the time, well, it is hard to convey my excitement at meeting a man dressed in polyester mouse suit, to convey my pure joy at having his big, gloved white hand around my shoulder, and looking up as his perfectly rounded black ears. It was like winning the lottery and the Olympics and the quiz bowl, all rolled into one. Or maybe the first best day would be the day I took my parents to the bones and we talked about Gus, or a day, just recently, when the three of us had gone to see the Hunger Games at midnight. When Panem flashed on the screen, my mom and I looked at each other, at the exact same moment, and grinned, and in the dark theater, her white teeth seemed to glow. And I loved knowing that, for that brief second, we were both experiencing the exact same thing, both thinking the exact same thing, which was, of course, "Hey, this fake city looks pretty amazing for a place populated by children-killers."

So maybe that was the first best day. Or maybe the second, after Disney. Or, I thought, maybe Gus really was first. Maybe they could all be tied for first. After all, as long as I was breaking the rules about having more than one best thing, why not go a step further, and not even really rank them?

Of course, at the time, I didn't know that it was about to become the third best day, or the tied for first five times best day, or whatever. At the time, it just felt like another day in a string of days that had been so-so, filled with ANTM marathons, doctors' appointments, and dinners I only half-tasted. Most of the days had been like that, in the six months since Gus had died.

In those six months, some people had gotten into the annoying habit of trying to tell me that Gus was around. Not in his corporeal form, of course, but, you know, "there." When something good happened to me – if the bus was on time or I got a high score on Diablo 3 – someone would wink at me, flash a knowing smile and say "I bet Gus had a hand in that," or, "I bet Gus is smiling on you right now." I know they were trying to help, but mostly it just pissed me off. I didn't like people attributing things to Gus when they had no way of knowing if he really did them, and when he wasn't around to correct them. I didn't like them speaking for him while he was eternally silenced. I didn't like it, and it didn't seem like something he'd like either. (Of course, in thinking that, I was speaking for him, and I guess that made me kind of a hypocrite.) And more than that – well, I wasn't sure I believed in an afterlife at all, but if it did exist, I really hoped that Gus wasn't going to spend eternity just hanging around, watching me watch TV. His soul, I thought, was meant for something bigger than that.

So even though I hated to think of Gus spending his eternal life helping me, some small, secret part of me still thinks that he may have had a hand in what happened next. Because what happened next led to a chain of events that led to something of a miracle. A small miracle, not the legendary, waves-parting, water-into-wine kind of thing, but small, everyday miracle, one that was just big enough for me, and just big enough for the spirit of one boy to maybe have dreamed up.

What happened next was this: The music stopped playing. A representative from Genie Foundation said hello. He hoped that I was having a pleasant day and wanted to know if there was anything he could do to help me.

Uh, get rid of my cancer, I thought about saying. I wondered how many time he'd heard that one. But instead I said

"Hello, my name is Hazel Grace Lancaster, and I think there's been some kind of mistake."

"What kind of mistake?" He asked, his voice gentle and hesitant. I imagined that he got a lot frantic phone calls in this line of work, dealing with the last wishes of the dying.

"I just got a letter in the mail reminding me that I get a wish from you guys. But well" I hesitated before saying this last thing. But it was better to be honest, I figured. "Well, the thing is, I already used my wish. Several years ago." And then, I thought, I got another wish, kind of, when Augustus Waters used his wish to fulfill my wish, because that was just the kind of stand-up guy he was.

"Really?" He asked. "Are you sure?"

Was I sure? What kind of person would be confused about whether a team of well-meaning people had planned an all-expenses paid vacation for her to the destination of her choice.? What kind of person could just forget a free trip to Mickey's house?

"Uh yeah," I said. "I have cancer, not dementia."

He laughed nervously. "Well there, Hazel, that's good of you to tell us. I think a lot of people would have taken advantage of the situation. Let me just check our records. Can you spell your last name for me?" I did. "And can you verify the last four digits of your social?" I did. "Well…"He trailed off. I heard typing noises on the other end. He was silent for several minutes, and I put the phone on speaker again, to get it away from my ear. Finally, he came back, but I didn't have the chance to switch back to regular phone mode before he started talking, so his voice boomed through my kitchen. "Well, Hazel, it seems you've gotten very lucky," he said, totally without irony. "We have no record of your wish, for some reason, so if you want, you really can have another one. Any ideas about what you'd like to wish for? IF you tell me now, I can get the paperwork started."

I thought for a minute. Something immediately sprang to mind, but I didn't want to rush into this wish. I had felt like I wasted my last wish on Disney World. I remembered how Gus had laughed when I told him. And I was determined not to waste this one – my second chance. How many people got two, technically three, wishes fulfilled in their life? I knew that I was kind of lucky despite, you know, the cancer thing. And maybe I shouldn't have said anything right then. Maybe I should have gotten off the phone, maybe made a few pro/con lists and thought it over, but time's winged chariot was at my back and all that. So I pushed the mental pro-con lists aside and spoke up. "Actually," I told him, "I do have one idea."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

So that's how, two months later, I found myself wearing all red and sitting at the Hen and Rye, a small, dark pub in the tiny, rainy town of Swindon, England.

Because my third and (probably) final wish was to come to middle of nowhere and watch a second-rate soccer (or football, as they called it here) team play in their biggest match of the year. As I sat there, I wondered if Gus would've thought that this was another waste of a wish. I wondered if maybe I thought that too. But really, it was what I wanted. And even though I hate to do that whole telling-myself-what-Gus-thinks things, I'd like to think that he would be happy that I was happy with it. Or even if he thought it was ridiculous, he would love me anyways. Just like I loved him.

"Love him," I whispered to myself, like a reminder, as I stirred my mug of tea and looked out the window. Unsurprisingly, it was raining, still and was, I realized as I put my hand against the glass, still cold. But I had to go out there at some point. I looked at my watch and realized that I was late. Somehow it had become 3:45, and the game started at 4. I thought suddenly of the words of one my favorite writers who said, "Time's such a slut. She screws everybody." If I was late for this game, she would certainly be screwing me. Then again, was it really Time's fault that I sat around in a café, staring into my Earl Grey and thinking about wishes?

I wrapped my bright red Swoodilypoopers Scarf around my neck, picked up the oxygen tank I carried everywhere and headed for the door. On the way out, several people smiled at me and nodded towards the scarf. Everyone in town, it seemed, was excited for the game, although the weather didn't match their excitement, I thought, as I pushed open the doors of the pub and stepped out into the drizzle. (It was, it must be said, just a drizzle, not exactly a hurricane, but even so I wasn't really looking forward to walking through it on my way to the stadium.)

But if enthusiasm about soccer was weather, then the people of Swindon were definitely a hurricane, category 5. I had never seen so many people dressed in red, the Swoodilypoopers colors. They were singing and chanting in the streets, and the noise only got louder as I got closer to the stadium, until it finally swelled into one big, beautiful symphony of screams. "Swindon, Swindon" they cried. I smiled and took a deep breath, as deep as I could, letting the cool air fill my lungs that sucked at being lungs. There seemed to be something electric in the air, and I didn't know if it was just my imagination, or if all those people really were generating their own current. And maybe, just maybe, it was Augustus Waters. Maybe not, but just in case, I took one more deep breath before heading into the stadium.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Thanks to the Genie Foundation, my seats were located in the front row, a spot normally reserved for the players' families and significant others and the royal family, if they ever happened to show up. In fact, as I looked around, I saw a few people I recognized from the Swindon Town Gazette, the town's newspaper which I read online and which frequently profiled the players and their families. To my left, for example, was the family of Voluptuous Pèricard, his wife and two kids. Above me was Leroy Williamson's girlfriend, famed British supermodel Olivia Lettle. I was only slightly embarrassed when I realized I knew so much about these people I had never met. I knew, for example, that Pericard's older son had recently celebrated his birthday with a Harry Potter-themed party, and that Olivia had broken up with Leroy twice in the past year, but that she always got back together with him after the rare Swoodilypoopers victories.

To say I liked the Swoodilypoopers was something of an understatement. I was a fanatic – in every sense of the word. There were only a few things in the world that I felt this strongly about – My family, Augustus Waters, Amersterdam, my favorite novel, _An Imperial Affliction_, and, of course, The SwindonTown Swoodilypoopers. I had been watching the Swoodilypoopers with my dad ever since I was a kid. My dad preferred to watch the better teams, like Manchester United and Chelsea, but I was always drawn to the Swoodilypoopers. At first it was just because I liked their bright red uniforms. But the more I found out about them, the more I liked them, something which, honestly, rarely happens with athletes or celebrities or anyone for that matter. (For example, I used to really like Ryan Lochte, until I found out that he has custom-made lime green bedazzled sneakers with his name on them. No matter how blue his eyes or how sculpted his torso, that's just something I can't get past.) I liked the fact that the Swoodilypoopers were the underdog. They almost never won, so when they did, it always felt like you were witnessing a singular, amazing event, like a space shuttle launch or the birth of a baby. And also maybe I just liked to root for the underdog since, you know, I was kind of life's underdog, and cancer always seemed to be beating me. (Although, I guess I should be grateful it hadn't quite won the game yet.) But more than that – I liked the story of the Swoodilypoopers. Not to sound like one of the cheesy encouragements Gus's parents loved, but there was real heart in this team. The players looked out for each other. They stuck together. Even when a few of them got offers from bigger, better teams, they never left. All of the players had their own stories, their ups and downs, a few secrets that came out over the years, but they all seemed to love each other just the same. (Some loved each other a little more than the others, but we'll get to that in a second.) No matter what happened – even when Leroy Williamson couldn't block a ball that came right at his hands, even when Bald John Green, the team's striker, missed a straight shot into the goal, the Swoodilypoopers always walked off the field together, with their heads held high, patting each other on the back, their red uniforms practically glowing against the perpetually gray sky. And you always knew, no matter what, they would come back to the field and try again. It was something you could count on – The earth would always be round, England would always be rainy, and the Swoodilypoopers would almost always lose and always, always, always come back for more. In my life, where boyfriends sometimes dropped dead, I liked that kind of consistency.

At precisely four o'clock, the players from both teams came on to the field. The opponents, Tottenham, got mild, polite applause. But when the home team, the beautiful Swoodilypoopers trotted out, the crowd roared. Then the national anthem played, and we all stood up. It was at that moment, one of total silence save for the sweet melodies of God Save the Queen, that Dank Green decided to make his entrance.

Of course, I didn't know his name was Dank Green at the time. I just knew that was some sort of rude guy, who looked to be about my age and who was rudely climbing over bleachers and feet to get to the middle of the row, causing a lot of noise during the national anthem. I wasn't all that offended, since it wasn't my national anthem, but still, it seemed a little distasteful. Then, the boy finally stopped scooting and saying "pardon me" and sat down in the seat right next to me. He was lanky, with long skinny legs which he stretched out in front of him.

"Hello there," he said as the anthem ended, giving me a quick wave. "Sorry about the interruption." He had long brown hair that fell into his eyes, glasses, and he was wearing both a red Swoodilypoopers scarf and a jersey, along with jeans.

"Oh, I don't mind," I replied. "Although you might want to say something to the Queen."

He laughed. "Ah, ol' Lizzie won't mind. I suspect she laughs at the anthem. After all, God doesn't really need to save her. In fact, he might need to fear her. She's a force of nature."

"Maybe," I said, smirking. "Although, you think if she had so much power, she could do something about the weather in this place."

I was surprised to hear myself making small talk with a stranger. I was never good with people, really, especially not people around my age. Something about my peers intimidated me. Maybe because I knew my pop-culture knowledge started and ended with America's Next Top Model, which, let's face it, wasn't even really that popular anymore, and had been reduced to something no one really watched except maybe if there was a marathon and it was a particularly boring day. No one my age ever seemed to want to talk about obscure novels written by fat ex-patriots. But something about this guy just put me at ease right away. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but I chalked it up to the camaraderie I feel with fellow Swoodilypooper supporters. After all, if someone can cheer on a team that never wins a game but always wins in friendship, you know they're someone special.

"Ah, but why would she want to change the weather?" He asked. "All the rain builds character. Plus, it's as much a part of our history as imperialism and monarchy are."

"Yeah," I scoffed, "quite the history you've got there."

"You're one to talk," He replied, grinning. "A string of expensive, endless wars, total environmental destruction, widening income gap. Quite the story you Americans are writing."

Well, I couldn't argue with that. "Yeah, I guess you've got me there." I shrugged.

"Don't worry," he said. "I know you're not all bad. Now, what did you say your name was?"

"Uh, I didn't," I said. "It's Hazel. Grace," I added quickly, because I thought it sounded better than just plain Hazel. It had been Gus' name for me, too. I wondered, sometimes, if maybe I shouldn't share it with anyone. But I liked the way it sounded, and I liked how it reminded me of him.

"Ah, Hazel Grace," the boy nodded. "Nice name. Does anyone call you Hazel G? Perhaps H. G-Money?"  
"Uh, no," I laughed.

"Darn," he said. "I thought all Americans were rappers. I'm Dank, by the way."

"Dank?!" I asked, thinking he was kidding. But his expression didn't look like he was joking, and I quickly realized he wasn't. "Oh, sorry, I mean, it's just kind of unusual."

"Yeah, I know," he nodded. "Don't worry about it. Everyone has that same reaction. My mother had kind of…odd taste in names. I think maybe she was going to the pubs a bit too much back then, if you know what I mean. After all, she named my brother Bald John. Of course, that turned out to be somewhat of a prophecy."

"Wait, you're Bald John Green's brother?" I asked, surprised.

Bald John Green was my favorite player on the team, but I didn't want to be too much of a fangirl, especially since this was his brother, his kind-cute brother, if you're into the scruffy, British thing, and I generally tried not to embarrass myself in front of cute guys. Not that that mattered, of course. I was in love with Gus.

"Wait," I said, "you mean Bald John is his real name? I thought it was just a nick name."

Bald John Green, though he was only twenty-seven, had absolutely no hair on his head except for his black handlebar mustache. The top of his head was shiny and white, like the bottom of a ceramic bowl. I had a bobblehead of Bald John Green on my desk back home, and I liked to rub his bald head for good luck.

"Indeed, Hazel G." He said, "That is his real, honest name."

"Oh. Wow. All this time I thought they just called him that to, you know, avoid confusion."

There was another John Green on the team. Well, when he joined the team, his name was John Bennett, but he and Bald John Green had started dating almost immediately. Their courtship was the talk of all the tabloids, and a few years ago, when they had a civil ceremony, becoming team mates for life, the SwidonTown Gazette had devoted an entire issue to the lavish ceremony. Now John Bennet was John Green, too, and but the fans always called him Other John Green.

"Nope, it's an old family name, actually," Dank Green told me. "My father was Bald John, and his father before that. But John Bennet-Green is just plain John. His mother didn't share the same taste for unusual name as ours, lucky guy."

"Bald John Green is my favorite player," I admitted. "And I'm not just saying that because he's your brother."

"Oh well, thanks," Dank replied. "I'm sure he appreciates it."

"You know the artist Salvador Dali?" I said. Dank nodded. "Well, he used to say that his mustache picked up signals from the future. I think Bald John Green's mustache picks up signals of awesomeness."

Dank laughed. "Maybe," he said. "I wonder if I should try growing one then. Maybe it runs in the family."

I looked at his full of head of brown hair, so long it fell into his eyes. "Maybe," I said. "Although it doesn't look like the baldness does."

"Yeah, that's just John, for some reason," he replied.

"Wait, so if you're his brother, you must have gone to the wedding, right?" I was really trying not to gush, but I really wanted to find out the details about the wedding. It was one thing to read about it in the Gazette, and another thing to hear about it from someone who had actually been there. That wedding was a pretty exciting event in my life. I mean, when two of your favorite players from your favorite team get married, and to each other no less, it's kind of a big deal. I had followed the wedding, reading about the rings the John Green's had picked out for each other (tasteful, simple, silver) and where they planned to live afterwards (a small cottage in the countryside, right outside Swindon). If ever there had been a time when I really needed another wish, that was it. I would've given anything to go to that wedding. Well, not anything. Not Gus, although I hadn't had a choice in that. Not my signed copy of an Imperial Affliction. Not my lungs, no matter how much they sucked at being lungs. But I used to picture myself going, charming the John Greens, who would invite me over for tea. In my daydreams, I would go off to their cottage, and we would spend hours discussing Swindontown history and swapping stories of our favorite moments, and I would give them a few tips about how they could fix their defense, and they would nod thoughtfully and say, "You know what, Hazel Grace, you're right."

"I did indeed attend those nuptials, H.G." he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"So," I said, trying to control my fangirling, "What was it like? Were there really life size replicas of the John Greens made of marzipan? And scoops of ice cream that looked like soccer balls? And did Bald John Green really wear a Swindon-red suit?"

"I see you keep up with the Gazette," Dank said. "And US Weekly. And maybe…People? Were they the ones that had the story about the marzipan?"

"I don't normally read those," I protest. "Well, the Gazette, but not the trashy magazines." I wanted to tell him about how I was well-versed in obscure Dutch literature, but then I wondered why I felt the need to impress him.

"Okay," he nodded. "Although, I take offense to you calling them trashy. People is a legitimate publication. Their story last week about Reese Witherspoon's third marriage was truly inspirational. But yes to the red suits, although they both wore them. And no to everything else. It was a pretty small ceremony, really. Just family and friends and some good food. The Johns don't like to show off. They were just glad to be married. Or civil partnered, I guess."

"Well, still, it must have been amazing," I said. "Two awesome people bringing together their awesomeness."

"It was pretty cool," Dank agreed. For a few minutes, there was a pause in the conversation and we both watched the game. Then, Dank spoke up again. "You know," he said, "I don't share my brother's er, predilection for, well…men. Just in case you were wondering."

"Oh." I said. "Um, okay."

I didn't know what to say. It seemed like kind of a flirtatious thing for him to say, but maybe he didn't mean it like that. Still, I felt like I should tell him that I had a boyfriend. Except that wasn't exactly true.

"Just thought I should mention it." He said. "You know, sometimes people wonder, and I just feel like I should clear it up right away. Just so they don't, you know, try to set me up with their brother or something."

"I don't have a brother."

"Ah, okay. Well…"

We were quiet again. I watched the game, but felt awkward, and was aware of him watching me.

"Well, so," he finally said, a few minutes later. "You don't have a brother? But you must be related to someone on the team to be sitting in this section. A cousin?"

"Ah, no." Now it was time for me to clear something up, something people sometimes wondered about. "I'm here because, well, the Genie Foundation sent me here. I have cancer." I lifted up my oxygen tank, as if that explained everything.

"Oh," he nodded. "I see."

But surely he must have noticed before. I had almost no hair, not to mention the tubes coming out my nose. I could never decide if I liked it better when people pretended not to notice or when they stared. Pretending felt dishonest, but the staring made me feel weird. By this point, though, I had told my story about a thousand times, to friends and teachers and curious strangers. I was almost used to it.

"Well, that's too bad, Hazel G," Dank finally said. "But I have to say, I think it's pretty awesome that, of all the things you could've done with that one wish, you decided to come here to Swindon."

"There's no place I'd rather be," I said, smiling. And it was true. Well, of all the places that the Genie foundation could actually send me, this was the best. If I could be anywhere, I would be back in Amsterdam with Gus, but there were some dreams even the genies couldn't make true.

"I feel the same," Dank nodded, toying with the red Swindontown Scarf that was thrown over his shoulders. "Nothing better than seeing the best worst football team on their home field."

I nodded, and with that, we settled into our seats to watch the game.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

By the end of the first half, the Swoodilypoopers were more than living up to their reputation as, like Dank Said, the best worst team. In fact, this may have been their worst performance yet, a truly remarkable feat of unremarkableness. The other team had scored three times, and the Swoodilypoopers had spent ten minutes just trying to get the ball in the general direction of the other team's goal. But even so, I was glad to be there, sitting with Dank and listening to his running commentary on the game. He was full of little, insider tid-bits about the team, especially about Bald John.

"God, that was terrible," Dank said, sitting down and shaking his head as the half ended. "I mean, worse than terrible."

"Yeah," I agreed. "They do seem to have hit a rough patch. Rougher than usual. Usually Other John Green can at least make those shots up the middle."

"Ah well, the team has had a particularly rough couple of months, I'm afraid," Dank sighed. "Didn't you hear?" I shook my head no, so he explained. "Well, you know John Green, the guy who always narrates the games?" I nodded. John Green had narrated every Swoodilypoopers game since, well, since their inception it seemed. He was famous for going off on tangents, and telling stories about his college years and his son and other things that were totally unrelated to the game. "Well," Dank continued, "did you know that he was also the team's manager? And owner? And only coach?"

I shook my head, surprised to hear this. How come the SwindonTown Gazette had never mentioned it? Although, for days afterward, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had heard that name somewhere else, with something not related to soccer.

"Wait," I said, "The guy who narrated the games was the team's owner?"

"And manager and coach," Dank repeated.

"Wouldn't that make him a little…biased? I mean, isn't the announcer supposed to be impartial?"

Dank shrugged. "Technically there's no rule about it, and no one else wanted to do it. We're kind of a pathetic team, if you haven't noticed. Most people don't want to stay for the entire match."

"Huh," I nodded. Now that he mentioned, I had noticed that John Green's narration, when he wasn't talking about his own life, was almost exclusively focused on Swoodilypoopers and their few achievements. He practically cried on the rare occasion that they scored. And then there was the similarity in names…but I had always chalked that up to the fact that "John" and "Green" were both pretty common.

"Wait," I said, "he's not related to you, right?"

Dank shook his head. "Just a crazy coincidence. Well, anyway, so this John Green, he was our faithful coach and manager. But just last month, he up and decided that he didn't have time to coach us anymore. Said something about wanting to write a novel. He also said he might come back after a few months but…" Dank shook his head. "How could he just abandon the team like that? And to write a book? Now, don't get me wrong, I love books. But this right here," he motioned to the field, "Here, we're writing history."

I nodded, unable to speak as I processed the shock. The Swoodilypoopers – coachless! Now what would happen to them? It seemed unlikely that any other coach would want to take them on.

"Oh, and to make matters worse," Dank continued, "Other John Green has been having something of an existential crisis lately, so his head hasn't really been in the game."

"Really?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Well, it all started when he found out that the Universe has no edge. Apparently he saw a video about it online, and it's got him totally freaked out. He keeps going on about how there has to be more to life than football and all that malarkey."

"Well, isn't there?" I asked.

"Yeah," Dank admitted, "For most people. But for a football player in the middle of the season…there shouldn't be. This is what happens when they let them have the internet."

I didn't ask who "they" were.

"Bald John is trying to help him through it, but it's tough. The guy is going through some deep shit, pardon my French. Lost in a maze in his own head. I don't know if anyone can really help him through it. He'll just have to try to make it out on his own."

I nodded, and I felt my stomach clench. Even though I didn't actually know Other John Green, I felt like I knew him, and I was worried about him. Plus, what if this came between him and Bald John? I didn't want this to be the end of my favorite couple.

"Do you think he'll make it, though?"

"Oh sure," Dank nodded. "Eventually. Other John Green is a finisher, on and off the field. Maybe he'll snap out of it one of these days, and get his mind back where it belongs, on the game. It would help it they had a coach, though." Dank shook his head and muttered under his breath, something about books and abandoning the team.

"So what is Coach John Green's book even about?" I wondered out loud.

"Who knows," Dank shrugged. "Probably just something simple. It's not like he's going to win any awards."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Ten minutes into the second half, something miraculous happened. Other John Green scored a goal.

Leroy Williamson passed the ball the Bald John Green, who traveled up the field until he was almost at the goal, while Other John Green ran up the other side of the field, unguarded. Then, like a beautifully choreographed danced, Bald John Green faked a kick, then quickly passed to Other John Green. The ball landed right as his feet, and with the goalie distracted by Bald John, Other John kicked it directly into the goal.

"Yeah! He's a finisher!" Dank cheered. We turned to each other grinning. I put my hand up for a high five, while he moved in for a hug, and it was awkward. "Oh, whoops," Dank said, laughing, stepping back. He slapped my hand and turned back to watch the game. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if I had insulted him.

But my discomfort didn't last long, and I got caught up in the energy of the fans celebrating all around me.

The Swoodilypoopers fans, sometimes called Swooligans, are famous for two things: 1) Loyally supporting a team, even when said team loses ten consecutive games and 2) Their chants.

As Other John Green hugged Bald John Green on the field, the fans launched into a song. "He's big, he's tough, he has a brilliant puff. Other John Green!" They screamed this over and over, so loud the words were almost incomprehensible, and I tried to sing along, even though I got out of breath sometimes. All around me, people jumped up and down and hugged, screaming "Goal!" and "Finisher!" I smiled, watching the team celebrate on the field. The John Greens jumped up and down, while still holding on to each other. Their teammates gathered around them, high fiving each other and dancing. The entire team was gathered in the corner of the field by the goal, a mass of red and white burning bright against this grey day. This, I thought, is why I came all the way to England. To be part of a community like this.

The team still lost, but no one cared. We came, we saw the Swoodilypoopers, and we left happy, knowing that next week, with any luck, there would be yet another chance, and maybe, just maybe, the Swoodilypoopers would win. I think that kind of possibility, that hope, is what people keep coming back for. With every rare goal, like John Green's score today, we see just a little flicker of what could maybe happen some day, and what this team could be. And we believe they could do it, if things played out just right, and we want to see it when they do.

On my way out, I passed a concession stand selling pop corn, and the smell of it reminded me of movie nights at Gus's house, re-watching V for Vendetta, which reminded me of Gus, which reminded me that I hadn't really thought about Gus since that morning. I suddenly felt guilty. I didn't want Gus to be forgotten, like so many of the dead were forgotten. But then, did remembering him mean I had to think about him every second of every day? Would Gus want that? But it wasn't just that I had forgotten him. It was that I had forgotten him while spending time with another guy. But maybe Gus would want that, too. After all, if the tables were turned, and I was the dead one and he was still alive, wouldn't I want him happy, or would I want him to mourn over me forever? A selfish part of me said I would. But Gus wasn't selfish.

I sat down on a step outside the stadium and buried my head in my hands. How could I know what Gus wanted? I didn't want to be one of those people who was always talking about what Gus wanted, because I couldn't know. I could only guess, and I didn't want to guess incorrectly. And what if Gus didn't want anymore? What if he didn't do anything? What if he was no longer a "he?" Was there still a Gus or just my memories?

I didn't know. It is hard to love a dead boy.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

I was still sitting there when Dank Green found me. I heard him walk up, and I raised my head.

"Are you alright there, H. G.?" he asked. He was persisting with the nicknames, apparently. It was sweet, and friendly, but it also stung a little bit and reminded me of Gus saying "Hazel Grace," which in turn reminded me that I would never hear him say. All memories of him were two sided like this. First there was the memory, and then the remembering that there would be no more memories. But at least I hadn't forgotten him.

"Oh, I'm fine," I said, and resisted the urge to add that I was on a roller coaster that only went up. "Just catching my breath a little." I motioned to the tank and adjusted my nubbins in my nose. This wasn't entirely a lie. All the standing and jumping and cheering had made me tired.

"Ah, I see," Dank nodded. "A bit knackered are you?"

Knackered. A British word for tired, I remembered. Even that funny word, with its harsh N's and K's, sounded elegant in a British accent. It made me smile, in spite of myself.

I nodded. "Totally knackered," I agreed.

He laughed. "Huh. Well, are you too tired to come to dinner? I told the John Green's about you, and they said they'd love to meet you. They wanted me to pass along an invitation to their favorite place in town…but if you're too tired."

My head bolted up. "The John Green's?" I asked, unable to form sentences. "Dinner?"

So many times, alone in my room, or during commercial breaks of ANTM, I had imagined this moment. Dinner with the John Greens. I imagined the witty things I would say, impressing them. I would imagine discovering that they were both huge fans of an Imperial Affliction, and then we would get into a heated discussion about The Dutch Tulip Man, and I would tell them about how I met Peter Van Houten (although I would maybe leave out what I knew about Peter's daughter. It didn't seem right to tell his secret). And the John Greens would nod along enthusiastically, and they would regale me with stories of their whirlwind romance. By the end of the night, I would be so comfortable with them that I would lean over and say, "you know, John Green's, the Swoodilypoopers are a great team. They just need to up their defense a while." I would show them a few strategies I'd thought up. They would nod and say, "You're so right, Hazel Grace."

And here it was. The opportunity I always wanted, standing right in front of me, in the form of a gangly British boy that I didn't exactly mind spending time with.

As I got up and followed Dank down the street, towards the restaurant, I began to wonder if maybe Gus had been wrong about one thing: Maybe the world really was a wish-granting factory. Well, maybe not always, but for the time being, mine seemed to be. Maybe, I thought, the world had finally decided that I had been through enough. (Although apparently the world hadn't decided to give me perfectly working lungs, but that was alright. I would keep draining them every month for the foreseeable future, if it meant I could have this one dinner with the John Greens.)


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

However, my excitement wore off a little as I got closer to the restaurant, and I began to wonder if Dank inviting me was really just a Cancer Perk. Now, even if it was, I would still go, but it would be nice to get invited to something just because of like, me, rather than my cancer. This was a problem with being friends with healthy people. You never knew if their niceness stemmed from pity.

I decided to confront Dank directly.

"Are you just inviting me because I have cancer?"

He stopped walking and turned towards me. "No," he said, his face scrunching up in concern, and I didn't know him well enough to tell if he really felt it or was faking it. "Why?"

"Well, sometimes people do that kind of thing," I said. "If you think about it, that's basically how I got to England in the first place."

""Hazel, I invited you because you're cool and obviously a huge fan." He paused. "And if it makes you feel better, there's a nasty old man who comes to a lot of the games – he's probably eighty or so – he's always heckling the players, on both teams, and he once tracked down the John Green's address and sent them a box of rotten apples. He attached a note that said 'Here's some apples, you lazy sods.' And even though he's near-death, we have never once invited him to dinner."

I laughed, and he smiled and we kept walking, but part of me – a large part – felt sorry for the old man and wished they would invite him to dinner. Another part of me - a smaller part – was also surprised to hear Dank so easily place me in the same category as this old man, that category being "near-death." Sure, I knew it to be true, and, because of my sucky, drowning lungs, it would probably remain true, until I was just 'dead,' but so few people actually ever said it. I wondered if he'd even realized he'd done it.

Of course, anyone alive could, technically, be placed in that category, but healthy people had the luxury of not seeing themselves that way.

Eventually, after a long conversation about the weather, we arrived at the restaurant, a swanky looking place in the center of town, called simply "Dot." The writing on the door described it as "Modern, Fresh British Cuisine." I was excited about this. I had a had a few traditional British dishes so far, and, despite what everyone in the world said about British cooking, I thought they were pretty good. I especially liked fish and chips, and I was excited to see what the modern version of this might be. But mostly I was just excited to dine with the John Greens. They could've taken me to McDonald's.

Inside, it was clear that this place was pure class. Of course, that's exactly what I would expect from the John Green's. The spacious dining room was decorated with sleek, black tables and black leather chairs. The walls were white, with small black polka dots. The lighting was low, the music soft – and delicious smells floated out from the kitchen. I was thinking that it seemed like the kind of place you might see a celebrity, other than the John Greens, when suddenly I actually saw one. Or two, actually. As the waitress led us to the back of the restaurant, we passed a table occupied by a couple, a beautiful girl with long brown hair and a hot blonde guy. I recognized them to be Lily Collins and Jamie Bower, and I tried not to start fangirling all over again. You see, when I wasn't reading obscure novels by angry alcoholics, I was often reading Cassandra Clare's Mortal Instruments series, and these two actors at the table before me just happened to be starring in the movie adaptations of those books. I try not to be too obsessed with celebrities, and I try to remind myself that they are just mere mortals like the rest of us, and will love and live and get sick and die just like the rest of us, but – oh my God – it is hard to remember this when one is gazing upon Jamie Bower's golden locks. I tried not to stare and followed Dank to the table.

I'm sure that, if I told someone, like my friend Kailtyn, this story, she would surely say that it was a sign, that it was Gus, that Gus had twisted the webs of fate to bring me to this point. And yeah, I have to say, it is pretty unlikely that a girl would see the actors playing her two favorite fictional characters while she's on her way to meet her two real life heroes. But I still didn't feel confident that Gus was the one pulling strings, or that anyone was. I still liked to believe that Gus, if he was still around, in some form, was doing something better than arranging rendez-vouses for me with celebrities. I didn't mean to be ungrateful, and if it really was him, then I appreciated it, but I just didn't think it was.

Eventually, we got to the table, and there they were: sitting on the same side of the table, their heads and chairs close together, were the John Greens. They seemed to be deep in conversation, oblivious to everyone else in the restaurant, with Bald John's hand resting lightly on top of his husband's, and at first they didn't even notice when Dank and I walked up.

"Er, hello there," Dank said, approaching the table. He seemed hesitant to interrupt them, and I didn't blame him.

But if they were bothered, they didn't show it. They both looked at Dank, and then at me, and then they both smiled widely. Bald John stood up and extended his hand. "Hello, there, Hazel," he said. "We're so glad to meet you."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"So your name really is Bald John?" I asked a few minutes later. We were all sitting down now, light from the candle on the table flickering onto our faces, and I couldn't help but blurt out this question.

"What?" Dank said, with mock-offense, "Did you think I would lie to you, Hazel?"

"Maybe," I shrugged, and poked him in a side in a way that was, just maybe, flirtatious.

"Yes," Bald John nodded, an amused smile on his face. "It's really my name. I always wondered what would've happened if my mother named me Hairy Green instead." He rubbed his shiny head. "Of course, Dank isn't perpetually damp and musty, so maybe the names aren't all prophetic."

"Dank…" Other John Green said, shaking his head. "What a name."

Dank shrugged. "Mum just drew inspiration from her environment."

Suddenly Bald John eye's widened. "Speaking of our mother," he said, looking at Dank. "We promised we'd call her after the game."

"Oh, right," Dank nodded. "Well, let's just call her right now, before she goes to bed."

"Dank, we don't want to be rude," Bald John said. He sounded very much like an older brother. It was amazing to see this part of his life, after seeing him on TV for so long. Who knew that he called his mother after every game, or that he pestered his little brother?

"Ah, they won't mind, right?" Dank looked to us.

"No, you should go, John," Other John said. "I hate to see Myra worried."

"Yeah, I don't mind," I added.

"Okay," Bald John nodded. "You'll order for me?" He said, looking at his husband. The waiter hadn't come yet.

"Sure, what do you want?"

"Oh, hm, I haven't really looked at the menu," Bald John replied. He seemed kind of frazzled. "Just pick something out for me. I'm sure you'll pick something good." He smiled at him, and Other John smiled faintly back.

"I'll have a hamburger," Dank added. "In honor of our American friend." He winked at me, or tried to. Apparently he wasn't a winker, so his other eye twitched while the other shut. It was kind of endearing.

Bald John and Dank walked towards the door, and I watched them go, admiring, as they walked away, the smooth grace with which Bald John moved. Dank, by contrast, seemed to fling his too-long limbs around rather than move them, and almost fell into an expensive-looking vase by the door. It was funny, though, to watch him. Bald John was also impeccably dressed, as was Other John. Bald John wore a crisp, light-blue dress shirt with a Swindon-red tie, and navy blue pants. His outfit looked expensive, but not show-offy. Bald John was a little more casual, wearing dark jeans and a plain white shirt, over which he wore a dark brown leather jacket, which he later told me he bought in Italy, while traveling with Bald John. I wasn't in the habit of describing clothing items as beautiful, but man, that leather jacket really was. If it wasn't ten sizes too big for me, I might have tried to get Bald John to give it to me, using my cancer-ish whiles.

Other John didn't say anything, and moved the ice in his water around with his straw. I didn't know what to say to him, so I just looked around the room awkwardly. I noticed that Jamie Bower and Lilly Collins were getting up to leave and wondered what they were doing in Swindon Town in the first place. Maybe they were Swoodilypoopers fans as well, or maybe they liked to hide out in tiny towns like this one.

"So Hazel," John said, interrupting my thoughts. "How are you enjoying Swindon Town so far?"

"Oh, I like it," I nodded. "It's very…quaint." I didn't want to say cute. "And the game was amazing of course. How did you feel when you scored that goal?" Suddenly I realized what this was – a chance to talk about football, one on one, with one of my favorite players.

"Oh…good." John replied meekly. He smiled, but it seemed forced. "Same as the last time I scored, I suppose. Too bad it didn't win us the game." He sighed.

Then I remembered what Dank had said about Bald John's existential crisis. I looked at him more closely – the way he was idly stirring his ice, the tight line of his mouth, the sighs – definitely an existential crisis. Or a stomach ache. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

Was this the source of all the Swoodilypoopers problems, like Dank had said? Well, that and their missing coach. It certainly seemed plausible. After all, a team is like a machine, and all the parts have to work in synch with each other in order for the whole thing to run. If one of the parts was half in in head, half on the field, how could that part possibly do his job?

I felt bad for John Green, and I wondered if there was something I could do to help him. But what could I say? "Don't worry, Buddy, the universe cares about you." "This was all meant to be." And my favorite, "Without pain, how would we know joy?" I had heard all of that, and more, during my time as a professional sick person, and I knew it didn't help. As someone once said, "Easy comfort isn't comforting." (Oh, actually, I think that someone was me.)

But maybe, I thought – and this was bad, I knew – I should just try to find something to say, to snap him out of it. To save the Swoodilypoopers. But not just that, I rationalized. It would be the right thing to do, I rationalized. I mean, according to the cancer kid story, I'm supposed to be this font of wisdom beyond my years, full of insight into the inner-workings of the Universe, which I dared not disturb. Of course, I didn't believe any of that, but maybe Other John Green would.

"So John," I said. I resisted the urge to call him Other John Green. Maybe that was part of the problem – always being referred to as "Other." That can't be good for a person's psyche.

He had been staring at the candle on the center of the table. Now he looked up and forced another smile. "Yes, Hazel?"

I wasn't sure how to begin. I didn't want to come right out and ask about his problems, so I decided to try something I had seen Patrick do at support group: I decided to start telling him about my own.

I launched into my whole story – how I had been diagnosed at thirteen, how I been near death and then suddenly saved by the mysterious Phylanxifor, how my lungs filled up with water on an almost monthly basis, but still I pushed on, because life was worth it. I left Gus out of it, but mentioned that I had known a lot of other kids who had died, some of them close to me. But all the while, I told him, I tried to remember that life was worth it, I thought of my parents, and the Swoodilypoopers. I told him how I watched the team come back after every defeat, how they always surprised the doubters, and how this inspired me to come back and keep fighting. This wasn't exactly true, of course, but it wasn't exactly not true, either.

And by the end of the story, I had stumbled onto the truth. "I used to worry about leaving a scar on the world," I told him. "That I would hurt everyone who met me. Sometimes I still do, but…" I didn't know how to end that sentence. I just thought of Gus.

It didn't matter, anyway. John Green was weeping.

"Oh, Hazel," he sobbed, and reached for my hand. He squeezed it. "Thank you for sharing your story. You're so brave."

I nodded, feeling a little guilty, feeling the opposite of brave. Was this even helping him, I wondered? Then I got my answer, or so I thought:

"You know, Hazel," he said. "Lately I've been feeling…well, a little mixed up. But talking with you has really put things in perspective. So, thank you."

"You're welcome," I muttered, not meeting his green eyes.

John Green continued to cry and wiped his eyes and his nose with his napkin. I sat there quietly. His face turned the same red as the Swoodilypoopers jersey, and he was still a little weepy when Bald John and Dank returned a little while later. They didn't say anything to him, but I noticed that Bald John gently squeezed the top of his arm. They seemed almost to expect it, and I wondered if maybe this had happened before, John Green weeping at the dinner table.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

I woke up the next morning to the sound of the hotel phone ringing. Half-asleep, I wondered who could be calling me and whether I had asked for a wake-up call and forgotten about it.

"Hello?" I muttered, picking up.

"Hazel!" I heard a male voice exclaim on the other end. For a split second, I thought it was Gus. I had been dreaming of him. Then, like so many other mornings, I had to remind myself that Gus was dead. The person talking to me now was Dank Green. "Have you heard from John Green?" He asked.

"No," I replied. "Why?" I didn't know which John Green he was referring to, but I hadn't heard from any of them. "Wait, how did you get this number?"  
"There aren't that many hotels in Swindon," he said. "I just called around till I found you." In the background, I heard someone crying hysterically. I wondered if maybe it was Other John Green.

I thought then of the previous night. After Bald John and Dank came back, the dinner continued on in a pretty normal fashion, once Other John had stopped sniffling. It wasn't exactly like my daydreams. For one thing, we didn't talk about An Imperial Affliction at all. We mostly just talked about the food and the weather, like friends. That was the best part: feeling like I was friends with the John Greens.

"So the other John isn't there? You haven't seen him?"

"No…" I replied. "Why?"

"She says she hasn't seen him," Dank said. The person in the background sobbed again.

"Dank, what's going on? Who is that?"

"That's Bald John. He woke up this morning, and Other John was gone. He left a note. Apparently there was something about you in it."

"What? What about me?"

"I don't know," Dank said. Bald John wailed in the background. I realized I hadn't heard a sound like that since my friend Issac lost his girlfriend and his eyesight, in that order. "I haven't been able to pry the note from Bald John's hands, and I think it might be too personal for either of us to see. But, from what John told me, it was something about how you had helped him realize that he needed to be doing something bigger with his life. And so he ran away…to go do that, I guess." Dank sighed.

"What…but…" I didn't know what to say. I felt sick. Other John Green was gone, and it was my fault.

"Listen, Hazel," Dank continued. "I think you better just come over here. Bald John wants to talk to you, and maybe if you can help us figure out where Other John went. But don't worry, Hazel," he said gently. "No one blames you. Honestly," he added quietly, "I think this was going to happen eventually. Other John's been in a bad place."

I nodded unable to speak, even though I knew he couldn't see me nodding.

Dank quickly gave me directions to the John Green's house. It wasn't too far, but I would have to take a cab, because of my sucky lungs and also because I needed to get there right away. Not for the first time in my life, I wished to be able to teleport.

Outside on the sidewalk, as I got into the cab, I realized that another one of my dreams was coming true: I was going over to the John Greens' house, with an invitation from Bald John Green himself. Only now, I knew that we were definitely not going to have tea and cookies when I got there.

The world was not a wish-granting factory.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Twenty minutes later, I pounded on Bald John's front door. The door was painted red and white, like the team's jerseys, yet another indication of the Johns' dedication to the team. The house itself was brick, relatively small, and had a large garden out front full of vegetables and roses. Gardening, I knew from the Swindontown Gazette, was a hobby of Other John Green's. I wondered if Bald John would keep it up, now that Other John was gone.

No one answered the door, so I knocked again, this time louder and harder. I knocked until I felt a little breathless, and I had to steady myself against the door. Stupid lungs

Suddenly I heard someone inside running up to the door. It swung open, and standing there was Bald John Green.

"John?" He cried as it opened. "Is that -" Then he noticed me. His face fell, his mouth forming a tight line. "Oh."

The look he gave me, one full of disappointment, made me want to run away from the house. But of course, I couldn't run. And I don't mean that in "Oh I have to face my problems" kind of way. I was perfectly prepared to bury my head in the metaphorical sand, but I am physically incapable of running. Besides, I knew I deserved whatever Bald John was going to say to me.

"John," I said, my voice sounding weak to my own ears. "I'm so sorry."

Bald John sighed. His face was blotchy, from crying, and I noticed he was wearing two different socks. "It's okay, Hazel. It's just, when I heard the knocking, I thought it was John, and then it turned out to be you…"

"I know," I said. "It's my fault."

"No, Hazel. It's not. It's mine."

As much as I didn't want Bald John to hate me, I also didn't like to see him blaming himself. I knew I had to tell him what I had said to Other John.

"John…" I began, but I was interrupted.

"Hazel?" I heard Dank call from inside the house. He came walking up behind Bald John, and put his arm around Bald John's shoulder. They were same height, I noticed, or maybe Dank was just a tiny bit taller.

Unlike Bald John, Dank looked thrilled to see me. He grinned and patted Bald John on the back. "There, there, John," he said. "The three of us will get this straightened out. And you have to admit," he said, holding my gaze, "Life in Swindon has certainly been more interesting ever since Hazel G. arrived."

A few minutes later, we were sitting around a small table in John's kitchen. Dank made us all mugs of chamomile tea, all the while chattering on about the weather and the latest episode of Doctor Who, as if nothing was wrong. I noticed, when I walked into the kitchen, that there was a mostly-empty pot of oatmeal on the stove. I, being a creep, knew that oatmeal was one of Bald John's favorite foods. (I read it in an interview online, I think.) I wondered if Dank had made it for him, and if that was why he was so much calmer now than he had been when Dank first called me.

"Alright, let's get down to business," Dank said, setting the mugs down on the table. He sat down next to me. Bald John was across from me, and I couldn't meet his reddened eyes. "Milk or sugar, Hazel?" Dank asked. I shook my head no.

"Okay, John," Dank said, "tell Hazel exactly what the note said about her."

Bald John looked up from his mug. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He bit his lip, and I could tell he was trying not to cry. I was somewhat of an expert in the field of trying not to cry, since I never wanted to cry in front of my parents, so I knew what it looked like. Bald John looked at Dank and shook his head.

"Okay, John, you just drink your tea. I'll tell her." Dank looked at me. "So, as I mentioned on the phone, I haven't seen the note, but it appears that Other John said something about you inspiring him. Something about how, after he spoke to you last night, he felt moved to go out and explore the world, or something. Of course, we all know that Other John has been saying things like this for a long time, hinting that he wanted to do something to change his life. So we don't blame you, Hazel, right John?" John nodded, not looking up from his mug. "But it's like a puzzle, and you're the missing piece. And we're hoping once we know what you said to Other John, we'll be able to put it all together and know where he went. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "But I think it is my fault." Dank opened his mouth to protest, but I spoke over him. "No, really. It was so stupid. I was trying to help, but it was so stupid." I couldn't figure out where to begin, how to explain what I had done and why. I thought of something Gus wrote in his letter to Van Houten: "My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations." That was what it felt like. Or like there were marbles in my mouth, and then when I opened it, they all came spilling out at once: "So Dank told me about Other John's sort of personal crisis, and how he was feeling sad and stuff. And since I have cancer, sometimes people think I know more about the world, even though I actually don't. I actually know nothing, as evidenced by the current situation. Anyway, so I thought I would play to that notion of cancer kids, so I told Other John some bullshit – sorry – about how life was worth living and the world was good. And I told him about how so many people I had loved had died, and how watching the Swoodilypoopers fight on made me want to fight on, because I thought that would make him feel better and, I don't know, important."

I tried to take a deep breath, and then I took a big swig of my tea. It burned my throat.

Both John and Dank were staring at me now. To my surprise, John spoke first.

"Well, it all makes sense now." He looked at me. "You have no idea how hearing something like that would affect John. He's so caring, and giving. He's probably off at a hospital somewhere right now, seeing if he can donate his limbs to the patients." With that, Bald John got up and left the room, giving me one last shaming look on his way out, and indeed I was ashamed.

"Ughsdfsd" I said, putting my head on the table. I felt so small, like a child who had snuck into her mother's office, trying to help, and instead had deleted ten year's worth of work.

I felt Dank Green's hand, warm on my shoulder. "Hey, it's okay, Hazel. Bald John will get over it. And Other John will come back. Or better yet, we'll track him down ourselves."

I raised my head and gave him a doubtful look.

"Yeah, we will. We'll be like Holmes and Watson, in the Case of the Missing Puff. Now, do you think you're more of the Holmes type, or the Watson? Personally, I'd like to think I'm pretty observant, but I'm happy to be the sidekick if you want to be Holmes."

I was amazed as his ability to be so cheery in these dire situations.

Before I could reply, there was another loud knock on the door.

"Ah, that'll be the team," Dank said. "Come on, let's go into the living room. It's time for a good old fashioned Swoodilypoopers team meeting. I think even ex-coach John Green is coming."

The thought of facing a team who had, because of me, just lost one of their best players did not particularly delight me, no matter how cheery Dank sounded. But I stood up and followed him out of the kitchen.

In the doorway of the kitchen, he suddenly stopped at turned to me. "Do you really think it's bullshit?" He asked. "The idea that life's worth living?"

I shrugged, not wanting to get into one of those discussions, right before this meeting. "Come on," I said, nodding towards the living room. "Let's just get this over with."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

In the living room were two black leather couches, facing each other. On the wall between them, a large, flat-screen TV hung above a fireplace. As Dank went to open the door, I studied the pictures on the mantle. There was one of the Johns in Italy, probably on the trip that Other John had spoken of, standing in front of the Colosseum, both of them holding big slices of pizza. In another, the Johns were in wetsuits, standing on a beach holding surfboards. I guessed it was taken in Cornwall, the surfing capital of England. Finally, in the middle was a picture that, yesterday, I would've paid anything to see, but now I just felt guilty looking at it: It was the John Greens on their wedding day, both in red suits, standing on the steps of Swindon's Town Hall. Beside Bald John stood Dank, and I tried not to notice how good he looked in his black tux, a red rose fastened in the label. Everyone in the picture was looking at the Johns, but they were only looking at each other, holding hands, and smiling.

Dank opened the door, and the players began to fill up the room. I recognized them all – One Size Fitz Hall, Ginger Rampage, Cteve Austin - players that I had been watching for years, whose faces were familiar like a friend's.

A few of them glanced at me and looked confused, as if they didn't know who I was or why I was there. Maybe Bald John hadn't told them about my involvement in John's disappearance, and if so, I was grateful to him for that.

"Don't know what we're going to do," I heard Ginger mutter in his clipped accent. He was speaking to Leeroy Williamson, as the two of them sat down on one of the couches. "Other John was literally the heart of the team."

I didn't even have the energy to correct this misuse of literality. Besides, I didn't think that would get me off on a good start with them.

The last person to come in was John Green. A few of the players nodded at him and said "Hey coach," even though he wasn't their coach anymore. Apparently he had decided to make an appearance, because of the severity of the situation.

Coach John Green. Now, there was a character. He walked into the house holding a slice of pizza in one hand, clutching a video camera in the other. He sat down next to me on the couch and, while we waited for the meeting to start, he talked in to the camera. "Hello Hank," he said. "It's question Tuesday, the day I answer real questions from real Nerdfighters. Now, normally I do these videos in the airport, but today I'm filming in Bald John Green's house." He turned the camera around and quickly panned across the room. It was actually Thursday.

"Coach," Cteve said. "Cut it with the videos, would you?"

Coach John Green nodded, turned it off, and took another huge bite of his pizza. "French the Llama," he said, still chewing. "I can't believe Other John ran away. Did he say why?"

Dank shrugged. "He's been having a hard time lately. Which you would know if you hadn't left the team to write your book."

If Coach Green was bothered by Dank's passive aggression, he didn't show it. He just sighed deeply and said, "How strange it is to be anything at all…"

Coach John Green, it turned out, was full of these vague, wise-sounding sayings, and he spouted them off whenever he had the chance. It was strange, but over the course of the meeting, he really started to remind me of Peter Van Houten, except not drunk. Maybe those writer types are all the same.

At one point, Ginger Rampage, near tears, said that he just wished he knew the truth about what had gone wrong with Other John Green. To which Coach John Green replied, "The truth resists simplicity." When D. McGoldrilocks, looking for guidance, asked the coach if he had any insight into where John had gone, or what his note might have said, Coach John Green shrugged and said, "I have access to the same text you do, D. Which is no text, since I haven't seen the note. Dank, can we see the note?"

Dank shook his head. "Bald John doesn't want us to. It's too personal."

"Aw, bullocks," Fitz Hall said. "Too personal! This is a team problem. It affects us all."

"Fitz," Voluptious Pericard said, "Come on. Have pity. Think of how hard this must be for Bald John."

I hated to see my favorite players fighting like this, and once again, I realized it was at least partially my fault.

Suddenly, Bald John came into the room, and everyone immediately went quiet. He stood before them, between the two couches. He was so tall, and he loomed over all of us since we were sitting. His face was no longer red or blotchy. He looked hardened and resolved.

"You're right, Fitz," Bald John said, in a steady voice. "This is a team problem." Fitz looked guilty. "And we'll face it together as a team. But facing it doesn't mean tracking Other John Green down, or sitting around wondering what happened to him, or picking apart his personal letters." He put extra emphasis on the word "personal." "Facing it as a team means practicing. It means making a new line-up, a new strategy, and figuring out how we're going to make this work without John. John was a great player, but he was just one player, part of a team of great players, and we can still be a great team without him."

"If you'll remember," Coach John piped up, "I pointed out a while ago that the egos on this team were getting too big."

Bald John Green didn't say anything. He just gave Coach John a long hard stare, and the coach fidgeted a little in his seat next to me.

"We owe it to ourselves and to our fans to keep playing, despite this setback. We've worked too hard to give up now. We've had players out before, and we dealt with it then, and I know we can deal with it now, even if the circumstances are a little different. We're all worried about John, me more than anyone else, but I don't think trying to track him down will help. John will come back to us, I know it, but he'll do it on his own time. Whatever he's dealing with, he has to deal with it on his own. But when he does return, I want him coming back to a stronger, more focused team of Swoodilypoopers. Is that understood?"

Everyone nodded. Well, everyone except Coach John Green, who just took another bite of pizza. That's when I realized that Bald John was truly a great leader.

"Alright," Bald John nodded. "Let's get out to the pitch. Time for practice."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

As soon as Bald John and Coach John and the rest of the team had left, Dank immediately ran up the stairs. At first I didn't know why, and I wasn't fast enough to follow him, but then he came back down, holding a piece of paper in his hand.

"Alright," Dank said. "I've got the note. Our first clue."

"Clue?" I asked. "Wait, you're serious about hunting down Other John?"

"Yeah." Dank said. "Aren't you?"

"No. Bald John just said he has to come back on his own."

"Oh, pish posh." Dank said, waving his hand. "Bald John just said that stuff to inspire the team. Raise the morale. Honestly, I think Bald John doubts that Other John will come back. But imagine how happy he'll be when we bring Other John back. We'll be heroes."

I had to admit, it was a tempting daydream to dive into. If I helped get Other John back, maybe Bald John would forgive me. Or maybe he would just be mad at me for meddling, again.

"No, Dank," I insisted, "We can't."

"Come on," Dank said. "If we don't do this, no one else will. And I, for one, am genuinely worried about my brother. And my brother in law, for that matter. I think they need our help."

We argued back and forth for a few more minutes, but finally I gave in, and agreed that we should read the note, although, looking back, I couldn't say if it was out of a desire to help or pure curiosity.

Dank set it down on the coffee table in front of us, and we both leaned over, reading. I could smell Dank. He just smelled clean. It was totally silent in the room, except for my forced breathing. And so we read:

"Dear John,

"Let me start by saying that I love you, and that this isn't about you. I know you sometimes blamed yourself for my unhappiness, and wondered if there was more you could do, or if there was something you weren't giving me. But John – I need you to know that you are wonderful. You are an amazing husband, an amazing partner and team mate. You did everything you could. The blame and the burden of my problems rest with me.

"John, I wake up in the middle of the night with this knawing feeling inside of me. I look at you sleeping next to me, so peacefully, the moonlight hitting your mustache just so, and I think I must be crazy. I have you, and a job I love, and a warm home. I have so much more than so many people – but still I can't fight the feeling that something is missing. There is this big hole somewhere inside. I feel it constantly, and I wonder if I'm the only one. And maybe it's because I have so much in my life that I feel guilty. I feel like I need to give something back.

"When I talked to Hazel last night, I listened to her story about how she bravely fought cancer. She has done so much at such a young age…"

Not by choice, I thought.

"She is so brave, and she really inspired me. It makes me think of that Mary Oliver poem you read to me, in the locker room after the match against Manchester, the one that ends 'I don't want to leave simply having visited this world.' That's how I feel, John.

"I know this is harsh, but I don't think just playing on the Swoodilypoopers is enough for me. What's football? It's just a game. Sure, it entertains the fans, and gives them something to talk about at the pubs. But I want to do more, John. I need to do more."

What is it, I wondered, about all these guys wanting to be heroes. Someone should tell Clint Eastwood to stop making movies. But no, I realized, the fault is not in our movies. It is in ourselves. I think maybe, for some reason, we just have this need to make a mark on the world. Everyone wants to be a raging wildfire, but everyone is really just a small, flickering flame. The note continued on, and the next part made me feel guilty for every time I had picked up _People_:

"And then there's the press John, the tabloids always writing about you and me. How people think they know us. But the worst part is that they call me a hero. But I'm not a hero, John. I'm just a soccer player. I feel like a fraud.

"John, do you remember when we went to Surrey, for the weekend, and we walked around the Royal Holloway campus. You told me that the school's motto is 'Esse Quam Videri.' To be rather than to seem. That is what I want, John. To be rather than to seem.

"And I can't help but feel, here on the team, I'll never fufill my full potential. I'm always in your shadow. Other John Green, they call me. Even the nickname shows it. John, I hope you don't take offense to that. I know I'm in the shadow of a great man, and you have taught me so much, but I don't want to be in the shadows any longer. It's just that I've been playing soccer since I was so young - I never really got the chance to figure out who I was, on my own. Not as part of a team, or a couple , just me. John Green.

"John, I want you to know that I love you, and I'll always love you, and I'll come back to you. When, I don't know, but I will, and as long as I'm gone, I'll be thinking of you. But this is something I have to d,o John. I know I'll be better for it. When I come back to you, it'll be as a changed man. I'm doing this for me, John, but I'm also doing it for you. Because you're such a great man, and you deserve someone better.

"Tell the team I love them, too, but that they'll need to find another co-striker.

"All my love and best wishes,

John."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The next day, at eleven-o-clock, I was sitting next to Dank on train leaving Swindon Town for London, setting out to search for Other John Green.

If Bald John Green found out, my plan was to say that Dank talked to me into it. And that wasn't exactly a lie. He is very persistent, that boy. But he didn't really have to push me that much.

The day before, when he suggested we light out for London, Other John Green's favorite city and home to many hospitals, I resisted, at first. There was the matter of Bald John Green, but there was also the plain fact that I was here in London on vacation, and that I was supposed to return home, well, today. But Dank insisted that call up the airline and the Genies and try to extend my stay. I thought about what I had waiting for me back home. Truthfully, there wasn't much. My parents, whom I missed, but not that much. My classes at the community college. Winter break would be ending in a few days, and I was signed up for Contemporary American Fiction this Spring. I liked my classes, but they weren't particularly challenging, and I wasn't even really working towards a degree. I hadn't picked out a major or anything, since it was community college and because, let's face it, no one expected me to live that long. Gus' birthday was in a week. January 17th. His eighteenth. I had thought about maybe spending the day with Isaac, or Gus' family, but really what's the point of throwing a party when the guest of honor can't attend. I would celebrate in England, I decided. Maybe the best way to commemorate Gus was to do something awesome on his birthday. And I didn't think he would mind, as long as he wasn't forgotten.

So as you can see, I didn't have much on my schedule back home. There was really nothing for me to go back to, and so I told Dank I would go with him.

He was giddy and started packing immediately, throwing clothes into a duffle bag while he told me about all the cool things we could do in London, in between looking for John, of course. There was Harrods, and The Tower of London, and Hyde Park. I was beginning to suspect that this was really just an excuse to go tour around London for a few days, but I wasn't sure I minded.

I had to pay to change my flight. The Genies can only do so much. Luckily, I had some money from selling a few things on Ebay and Etsy, and I didn't have to ask my parents. It felt good, honestly, to buy something for myself on my own, instead of paying in Cancer Perks, my usual form of currency.

And now, as I sat watching green fields slide by out the window, I was sure that it had been worth it.

"Dank," I turned to him. "Are you in school? Don't you have, like, somewhere you need to be?" It suddenly occurred to me that I had never asked him. He never acted like he had something else to do.

"Is that a hint, H.G.? Are you saying you want me to jump off the train?"

I laughed. "No, I wanted to make sure you weren't going to get in trouble for this. Well, more trouble."

"Hazel, I keep telling you, Bald John is going to be thrilled. And no, no trouble. To answer your question, yes, I'm in school. I'm in my second year at Uni Sussex, in Brighton, which is quite a nice place to live. I'm studying History."

"Ah." I said. "Old stuff."

"Well, yeah, we look at the past, but I like to think we also look towards the future, just using the past as a guide."

I nodded. "So, what are you going to do with that?"

"A very American question." He laughed. "I'm not really sure. I might go to law school, or try to write a book. Actually, I heard there's an opening for a co-striker on the Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers."

"Don't joke like that!"

"Ah, don't worry, we'll find him. No one else could have the chemistry with Bald John, on and off the field, that John does." He paused. "So, what about you, H.G.? What do you want to do with your life?"

"Well, I don't really make those kinds of plans, Dank," I explained. "In order to make plans for the future, you have to expect to have one."

"Ah, I see. Well, don't you have just as much future as any one else? No one really knows how much time they have."

I had heard this argument before, and frankly, it annoyed me. "Yes, but it is still much more likely that I'll die before you do."

"But still, you've got that drug. Lanxifor, was it?"

"Philanxifor," I corrected him.

"Right. So you've got that. So doesn't that give you some kind of hope for the future? I mean, everyone says, 'live every day like it's your last,' but no one actually does, because that would just be miserable. And it just seems like, as long as you've got hope for a future, you might as well make some plans and start working towards something. Even if your plans don't work out…"

He trailed off. Even if you die before you finish, is what he meant. He seemed almost personally upset by this, like I was throwing away his future instead of my own. It surprised me. I was also surprised by his bluntless, and this must have shown on my face, because he quickly apologized.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to say that you're not doing anything. You're looking for John Green, and that's something."

"No," I said quietly. I wasn't insulted. "You're right." And he was, about me not doing anything or planning anything, and maybe also about me needing to start.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

We arrived in London just before noon, in Paddington Station. Coming out of the station, into the grey, cold day, I half expected to see Big Ben, just towering across the street, cloaked in fog. But most of the big sights, Dank explained, were in the center of the city, and we were not. From Paddington, we took another train even further away from the center, to Clapham, where Dank's friends lived.

Dank had arranged for us to stay with his two friends, Cal and Joseph, who, he explained, made YouTube videos for a living. Neither of them was home when we got to their house, but Dank had a key. He came to stay with them a lot, he explained. We dumped our stuff in their messy living room and then set back out for the city. Dank insisted that we see a little bit of the town before starting our search for Other John Green.  
"We should go to Bloomsbury," Dank told me as we walked back to the Tube station. "I know a great Indian place there. Do you like Indian?"

"Aren't we supposed to be looking for John?" I asked.

"Well, we've got to eat. We can't search on an empty stomach. You'll like Bloomsbury. It's got a cool history. A bunch of writers used to hang out there. T.S. Eliot, for example." He smiled at me.

I nodded. We had talked about this on the train, about favorite books and authors and hobbies in general. Dank, in addition to liking history and having pretty decent taste in books, was also really into knitting. "It's embarrassing, I know," he had said. "But it gets really cold here and I like to make myself hats. And for Bald John, of course. His head gets so cold in the winter." I didn't think it was embarrassing at all.

After a long ride on the Tube, London's underground transportation, we arrived in Bloomsbury. I was quickly starting to dislike the Tube. It involved a lot of stairs and standing. On one crowded train, a man offered me his seat. I didn't want to take it, but I also felt like I couldn't stand much longer. Reluctantly, I sat down and tried to look grateful instead of embarrassed.

We had lunch in an Indian restaurant in a basement of a building, which just made it so much more awesome. Places in basements always feel like a secret. I had had Indian food, but I had not had it like this: Flat, crepe-like things called Dosa, stuffed with mashed potatoes and curry and spices. It was South Indian food, the waiter explained, which I didn't even know existed. Well, I knew there was a southern part of India, but I didn't know it had its own food. I wondered how many other foods there were I hadn't heard of and hadn't tasted.

We left the restaurant and walked down a street called Great Russell. We passed the British Museum, a building surrounded by a black, wrought iron gate, its face made up of wide, marble towers.

"And that's where we keep all the stuff we stole from the colonies," Dank said.

"The Elgin Marbles, are in there, aren't they?" I asked.

Dank nodded. "Very good, Hazel. Ten points to Gryffindor."

"Oh, I'm a Ravenclaw."

"Duly noted. Do you want to go in? It's free."

There was this poem I liked, by John Keats, about the Elgin marbles. It was all about facing mortality, and how the marbles will survive longer than we humans will, but of course, they will not survive forever. I wasn't really in the mood for that kind of thing today.

"Nah," I shrugged.

But of course, this being London, the whole town was like a museum, and we could see signs of the dead in the city and the buildings that survived them (but would not, of course, survive forever). There, Dank pointed out, was the building that inspired t he Ministry of Truth in George Orwell's 1984. There was a house once occupied by the economist, John Maynard Keyes. It looked like someone else was living there now.

We turned a corner and there, on the side of an inconspicuous white building, was a brown, round sign: "T.S. Eliot," it said, "Poet and Publisher worked here for Faber and Faber. 1925-1965." I felt a small thrill on seeing it, but also a bit of sadness. Because the sign didn't really do much. It didn't tell you what he wrote there, or how he lived. Notice how it says "Poet and Publisher," but not "Person."

Monuments, I decided, were like literature. They buried but they did not resurrect.

It made me think of Gus, and how he wanted to live a grand life, how he wanted to be immortalized in the collective memory of humankind. But they wouldn't remember _him_, not really. They would just remember his name, and what he did, but we are not just what we do. And even if there was a ten-foot-tall statue of Gus in the middle of Indianapolis, he wouldn't be there to see people admire it. In the end, he would still be dead.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"You know, Dank," I said, after an hour of walking and sitting and one cup of hot chocolate. "Maybe we should start looking for Other John now."

"Alright," Dank said. "Fair enough."

We made our way to the Evelina Children's Hospital, going off Bald John's comment about Other John's generosity. I highly doubted that he was inside sawing off his leg for someone, but maybe he was volunteering.

The outside of the building was all glass, with one orange column running up the middle. It was very modern. The inside looked mostly like a hospital. Hospitals make some people uncomfortable, but not me. These are my people.

"So what? Are we just going to go around showing people pictures of him, saying 'have you seen this man?'?" I asked Dank when we got inside.

"As a matter of fact," he said. "I have a picture of him with me." He took his backpack off and unzipped it, pulling out a picture of the John Greens at Christmas, standing by a tree crowded with ornaments, both wearing red and white striped sweaters.

"Did you knit those?" I asked.

"I did indeed."

We looked in some waiting rooms, and a few of the other places we were actually allowed to go. There was no sign of him. We asked a woman at a desk if they allowed volunteers, and if there was a place where we could go to sign up. There wasn't. We checked the playground. Dank checked the bathrooms. It was a pointless search, and I think on some level we both knew that, but there was a real pleasure in the searching.

"Let me ask you something," Dank said, to that same woman at the desk. She was remarkably calm and friendly for someone dealing with two teenaged lunatics. "Have you seen this man?" He showed her the Christmas sweater picture. "Not the bald one."

She took the picture and really seemed to consider it. "No," she said. "I don't think so. Sorry." Then she looked at it again. "Wait, is that John Green? The footballer?"

We nodded.

"Is he supposed to be here?" She smiled suddenly and her eyes widened."Oh, is he doing an appearance? The patients would love that."

"No," Dank said, and her face fell. "Sorry."

As we walked away, I said to Dank, "See, that's why people shouldn't hope for things that won't happen. That woman was crushed."

Dank shrugged. "She'll get over it."

"That's kind of harsh."

"Is it harsh, Hazel, to believe in the resilience of the human spirit?"

Well, he had me there.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

"Put it in, put it in, put it in!" sang Cal. She waved her arms around, as if conducting an orchestra, except that in one hand she had a pint of beer.

"That's what she said!" screamed Joe. Some of Cal's beer spilled on Dank's shoes, but he didn't seem to mind.

It was the next day, 12 o'clock, high noon, and, the Swoodilypoopers were battling Liverpool. Battling and losing. Badly. We were at a pup in Cal and Joe's neighborhood, watching the sad excuse for a game.

Cal and Joe, along with a few other people in the pup, sang the "put it in" song whenever one of the Swoodilypoopers got close to putting the ball in the goal, which wasn't often. When the other team, Liverpool, approached the goal, which happened more frequently, they cried:

Joe: "Get it out, get it out, get it out!"

Cal: "That's what she said!"

Unfortunately, the Swoodilypoopers did not always get it out.

"Oh, Dank, why can't your brother put it in?" Joe asked as Bald John Green missed yet another goal.

"Hush, Joe," Cal said. "Bald John is really vulnerable right now. Look at how his mustache is drooping."

"I don't really want to think about my brother putting it in, Joe," Dank replied.

"I was talking about the ball, perv." Joe said.

"Oh, he wasn't talking about the ball," Cal said. "I found his 'My Dreams of Bald John' scrapbook under his bed. There's some freaky stuff in there. Clippings of his mustache. Pictures with Other John's face scratched out. A vial of Bald John's blood. He's actually thrilled that Other John ran away, so he can make his move. He's only friends with you so that you'll introduce him."

"That's why I'm friends with you, too." I added, and Cal and Joe laughed.

"So we are friends, then?" Dank asked, in a hopeful tone. We met eyes and I shrugged, and he grinned.

"Subtle, Dank," Cal said. "Subtle."

I had only known Cal and Joe for about eighteen hours, since the moment they had returned to their apartment late last night, but they already felt like friends. They were cool and kind of quirky and seemed like the kind of friends I might have made if I had gone to college, or high school for that matter. Cal, for example, was wearing giant, round black sunglasses, even though we were inside the bar. She had brown, curly short hair that stuck out from her head in all directions. She was wearing a light grey sweater that had several holes in it, not to mention a mysterious stain near the hem, and yet she managed to look really hip instead of homeless. I've never understood how some people can pull that off. A girl in cycle 3 of ANTM had dressed like that, too, which is why I noticed in the first place.

Joe, meanwhile, was wearing black jeans, a collared shirt, and a bow-tie, which I kind of loved. He had spent the previous evening talking only in questions, until Cal threatened to hit him over the head with a frying pan if he didn't stop.

He was doing the question thing as practice for one of his YouTube videos. Like Dank told me, they both made videos professionally, which sounded to me like the coolest job ever, except for maybe playing video games professionally. But who would ever be able to do that? Anyway, Joe made funny videos, "making ass of himself, as a profession," as he put it. Cal wrote and sang original songs and played the piano. Sometimes she made paintings to go along with her music, or drew short comics that showed what had inspired the song. The y both just seemed really interested in making things. Not to make money, not to be famous, just for the sake of making it, just as a way of talking to people. I kind of admired that. And they both had all these big dreams – Cal told me at dinner that she wanted to write a song that someone would want played at their funeral. I told her maybe I'd play one of hers at mine, so that she probably wouldn't have to wait so long. Dank shook his head when I said that. Joe said he wanted to inspire other kids to make fools of themselves, and to not worry so much about being weird. And they both seemed so excited when they talked about all their big dreams, and just for a second, I thought, hey, maybe I should get me some of those.

"Do you think Other John is watching this game somewhere?" Cal wondered out loud.

"And sniffing his pits in shame?" Joe added. "Because he should be .Letting the team down like that."

Dank shrugged. "To be fair, it isn't exactly Other John's fault that the team can't play without him. And it's not like they were doing so well, even when he was there. I love the team, but everyone knows that they're not good. It's part of their charm."

I had noticed that Dank always stood up for Other John when anyone tried to put him down, and I kind of admired him for that. After all, even though I hated to see the team suffering, I also kind of understood what had happened to Other John. It reminded me of something I read in a book once, I don't remember which one, but it was describing a man who killed himself and it said it was like "all the strings inside him broke." Maybe Other John had gotten down to his last few strings and had to run away before they all went flying. I had felt like that before.

It was true, though, that the Swoodilypoopers were now horrendously bad, worse than usual. Bald John and Fitz Hall, who was taking Other John's usual spot, both missed several easy shots to the goal. And all of the players had given up possession of the ball way too easily.

Suddenly, though, it looked like things might change: Bald John stole the ball from his opponent, and he broke away with it, running quickly up the field towards the goal, unguarded. If this had happened in a normal Swoodilypoopers game, you could bet that Other John would be right behind him, or maybe running up the other side of the field, preparing for one of their famous crossovers. But Other John wasn't there, so Bald John just kept running on his own.

"Oh, I bet he misses John now," Dank said quietly to himself.

A few of the Liverpool players were trailing behind Bald John now, but he was still mostly unguarded. He was twenty feet away from the goal, then fifteen, then ten. He could shoot. He was close enough to put it in, and there was no one around, except the goalie, to try to stop him. Things seemed to happen in slow motion then. It was like I could actually see the individual movements of his feet: His white cleat lifted off the ground, moved back, and then, like a playground swing reaching its highest point, it started to move forward again, briefly brushing the grass. I could see the grass fly up underneath the impact, the dirt flying. Behind me, I heard Cal and John and even Dank screaming for him to put it in. Bald John's foot reached the ball. I watched as his foot made contact, smack in the center of the ball, and then the ball went flying. It flying, off the ground, into the air, towards the goal…and then over the goal into the crowd. Though he was unblocked, Bald John still missed the goal by a wide margin.

Bald John had been stoic, surprisingly so, I thought, up until this point. But as the goal soared over the posts, he fell to his knees. The camera zoomed in on his face. He was crying.

"That's it," Dank said. "We have to find John Green."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

After the game, Joe suggested we go to Regent's Park, to enjoy what was left of the day, since it was relatively warm out, at least for the middle of winter in London. Even though Dank and I were both more determined than ever to find Other John, we agreed that maybe our search could start tomorrow. We needed some time in the fresh air to recover from that crippling loss. Such was the life of a Swoodilypoopers fan.

We took the Tube, and in the station there were giant posters advertising an exhibit at the Tate Modern Art Museum, something called "A Living Man Declared Dead." I jokingly wondered, to myself, if maybe that exhibit was about me. But I decided to keep that exhibit to myself, because it seemed to upset people, like Dank, when I talked about my own death. I wasn't really into ignoring the hard facts of life, but I also wasn't really into hurting the people I loved.

And I did love Dank, I realized. Well, maybe it wasn't love yet, but it felt like it was going that way. I liked the way he smiled at the lady selling tickets in the Tube. I liked the way he cared about his brother, and Other John, and people in general. I liked how much he liked me. I even, despite my better judgment, liked the way he seemed to think I had a future.

Of course, there was the matter of my dead boyfriend, whom I also loved.

We got off the train, and slowly (because of me) climbed up the stairs, into the surprising sunshine of the day. My eyes watered a little bit, after being in the darkness of the underground.

It had been a warm winter in London, and so there was still some green grass at the park, mixed in with patches of brown. Most of trees were bare, but not all of them, like the pines, and the pond wasn't frozen, and a few ducks were still swimming around. It was the dead of winter, but life persisted.

By the time we got to the middle of the park, where the path and the fields were full of people, I was feeling a little tired, and the four of us sat down on a bench. We were quiet, and an icy wind blew on my nose the only part of my body I hadn't managed to cover up. It felt kind of good, and I inhaled deeply, filling my sucky lungs with the cold air.

"Shall we go feed the ducks?" Cal asked after a few minutes.

"Yes!" Joe agreed. "The poor ducks. What happens to them in winter anyway?"

"I'm still a little tired out," I said. "And if one of them went crazy and attacked me, I'm not sure I could run away. But you go ahead."

"Did you have a bad duck experience, Hazel?" Cal asked sympathetically. I shrugged.

"I'm fine on the bench, too" Dank replied. This is what I'd hoped he'd say

"Fine." Joe said. "We're off then." He walked toward the pond saying, "Hey there, ducks, Holden Caulfield is worried about you."

"No, just the ones in New York," Cal added. "Holden doesn't give a shit about the London ducks."

"You know he's not really worried about the ducks, right?" Joe asked. "It's a metaphor."

"Psh." Cal said. "Metaphors are for phonies."

They continued chattering as they walked, but their voices faded away until I could no longer hear them.

I looked at Dank. There we were, in the middle of a beautiful, quiet park in London, sitting on a bench, the sun shining in through the trees, casting shadows onto the cobblestone path. In this situation, I bet Gus would've tried to make some romantic speech, but Dank just sat there, smiling at me. I smiled back, I knew it was mean to compare the two, since one couldn't really compete, but I did any way, and then felt bad.

I wanted to kiss him. Dank. I knew it with certainty then, and I wanted to do it before I had time to stop and think about What It Would Mean.

"Dank," I said. He looked at me. "If it's alright, I'm going to kiss you now."

He nodded.

It was a bit awkward at first, since we were sitting next to each other, and had to lean sideways to get our faces together. But then he pressed his lips to mine, softly, and the heat coming off him warmed up my whole face. And then I thought, of all the ways to fight off the cold, this one was pretty good.

After a little while, we pulled apart. "Well, Hazel," Dank said. No H.G. No G. Money. "Well, that was lovely. And unexpected. I wasn't sure you liked me as much as I like you."

I nodded. "It was. I do." And for a second it seemed like this might be a good time to talk about Gus, and to explain why I had been holding back, but then I just couldn't make my mouth open to say it, and the moment passed.

"Well, that settles it then," Dank said. "When we get back to Swindon, I'm knitting you a scarf."

I laughed.

A few minutes later, Cal and Joe came back from feeding the ducks. It was only four-thirty, but the sun was starting to set, and we decided it was time to go. As we left the park, I just tried to enjoy the day, and to notice things: The mother holding hands with her two wobbling children, the couple with their arms around each other, the small birds flitting in the trees, and the way the soft light fell on the still-green grass. So much of the city had seemed to me like a monument to the dead, but this park, I decided, was an ode to the living.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

A few days later, I felt someone shaking me awake.

"HAZEL." It was Dank. He was screaming. "HAZEL. I KNOW WHERE OTHER JOHN IS."

My eyes shot open. "You do?" I asked him.

He nodded, his face serious.

"Give me a second to get dressed."

He left the room, and I got up and put on jeans and green shirt. I zipped up my sweatshirt, feeling like a ninja assassin about to go on a mission.

Thirty minutes later, Dank and I emerged from the underground into the cold and windy day. On the Tube ride over, Dank explained to me that he had seen a post on Swoodilypoopers supporters blog about a fan who had unexpectedly run into Other John, much to the fan's delight. The fan had gone into a charity shop (the British word for thrift store, Dank told me) run by an organization called Cancer Research UK. He had been looking for a new pair of trousers and, in addition to getting a great deal on some gently-used pants, had also run into his hero, Other John Green. On the blog, he raved about how nice John was, and how great it was that he was taking some time off to do charity work. Other John refused to pose for pictures, but the blogger swore that it was really him.

"We have to move fast," Dank told me. "If John finds out it's on the internet, he'll probably move to another store." Apparently the organization had a lot of stores all around London. The one we were going to was in a neighborhood called Marylebone.

Dank and I had been searching for John for days, without much luck. The day before, Swindon had played again, this time against Birmingham, and lost five to nothing. With each goal scored against Swindon, and with each easy shot that Bald John missed, we felt more motivated to find Other John. As we walked towards the store, we were both quiet, focused on the mission ahead. I wondered what Other John would say when we got there, if he would hide, or if maybe he waiting for someone to find him. Maybe all he just wanted to be missed. Or, I thought, maybe he just wanted to be left alone.

The front of the store was purple, and in the windows were mannequins, one wearing a suit, another in a dress, another in a long, khaki trench coat. They had no heads and looked kind of ominous.

Dank and I slowly pushed open the doors and walked in. Inside, there were racks of clothes along the walls, dresses and shirts and pants all in different colors, arranged in no apparent order. And at the back of the store, at the check-out counter, stood John Bennett-Green. He was directly across the room from us, but he didn't see us walk in. He was busy talking to a woman with dark hair. They seemed to be having an intense discussion about ghosts.

"Maureen," I heard Other John say. "Ghosts aren't real. Maybe they just feel real, because you're writing this story and spending so much time thinking about it."

"Oh, they're real, John," the woman, Maureen, replied. "If there aren't ghosts, then how do you explain THIS, which just appeared on my doorstep this morning?" She held up a newspaper.

"The paperboy brought it?" He suggested.

"A likely story," she replied.

"John," Dank said, taking a few steps towards the counter. "Hello." He waved awkwardly. I followed him and forced a smile.

Both John and the woman turned to look at us. John's face was blank and hard to read, but he didn't look especially happy to see us. Meanwhile, the woman stared at us, her eyes wide and intense. For the first time, I understood the expression about someone seeing into your soul. But this was not romantic. It was just uncomfortable.

"Dank?" John said. "Hazel? What are you doing here?"

"Wait," the woman said. "Your name is Dank?"

Dank nodded.

"That's weird," she said, pulling a phone out of her pocket. "I must tweet about this."

"John, we want you to come home," Dank said. "The team needs you. Bald John needs you."

I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. I didn't want to admit that that whole speech I had given him was mostly bull-shit, or that I thought he was being a little ridiculous. I suddenly realized that maybe he wasn't. Sure, his letter had been a little over-the-top, but really what he wanted was to find his place in the universe. And you can't say that that's a ridiculous problem.

"I know you want to help, John," I said finally. "But you did help by being on the Swoodilypoopers. I know soccer players don't save lives like doctors and cancer researchers, but you're still important. The Swoodilypoopers gave me something to be excited about." That, at least, was true. John smiled and looked at me, but his eyes were sad. He shook his head.

"Let me ask you something, Hazel," The woman, Maureen, said, turning her intense, scary gaze on me once again. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

I thought of Gus. "No."

"Well, you SHOULD." She seemed to talk in capital letters. Her stare made me feel like she could see me thinking about Gus, like she knew.

"Who are you?" Dank asked her.

"Your name is DANK," she replied.

During this whole exchange, Other John had been silent and had stared down at the counter, his puffy hair falling into his eyes. Suddenly he raised his head and spoke.

"I appreciate you guys coming here to see me," John said quietly. "But I'm not coming back."

"John, please," Dank begged.

John shook his head. "I'll go back to Bald John someday, but I'm not going back to the team.

"I'M LEAVING." The woman said. "I'll see you tomorrow, John." She gave Dank and I one last, long, awkward look and then walked out of the store.

"Okay, who was that?" Dank asked John, forgetting our mission for a minute.

"That's Maureen," he replied. "She comes into the store every day. She's a writer, from the States. She's here researching Jack the Ripper."

"Oh boy, another writer," Dank said. "You should introduce her to coach."

"I think they're already friends."

"John, please come back with us," Dank said again. "We miss you. Everyone in Swindon misses you. Have you been watching the games?"

John shook his head. "Football isn't part of my life any more, Dank. I'm trying to pay attention to more important things."

"More important?" Dank exclaimed. "What, like spending time in charity shop? Selling clothes? How is this better than playing football?"

"Dank," I said. "That was mean." I could understand why he said that, but it didn't seem right to put down something that was obviously so important to John. Besides – selling clothes, playing football, curing cancer – what good does any of it do, really? And since they were all equally useless, maybe they could all be equally important, too. It's like a math problem. If n and x and y all equal zero, then they all equal each other, too.

"She's right," John said. "That was cruel, Dank. And I may not be on the front lines curing cancer, but at least I'm helping to raise money to cure cancer. If no one was here to work at the shop, they wouldn't raise any money."

"Alright, I'm sorry," Dank said, and he sounded like he meant it. "But, John, playing football is important, too. If you're not there to be co-striker with Bald John, then the team will never win."

"So they won't win," John said. "It's just a game." It seemed like he was trying hard to sound resolved, but I wasn't sure he really believed it. It sounded like a line he had practiced saying over and over again.

"But think of all the disappointed fans. Those are real people, John. And they need you."

"I'm not going back," John said. He looked down at the counter again. "And that's final."

"Come on, Dank," I said. "We should go." We were hurting John, and I didn't want to do that anymore.

"John, please," Dank said, trying one more time.

"Dank," I pulled on his arm. He turned and followed me as I led him back of the store. "Bye, John," I called as we got to the door. "I'm sorry we bothered you."

"Bye, John," Dank said. "Try to call every once in a while. And maybe watch a game or two." I gave him a look. "And I'm sorry, too."

We walked back to the tube station, went down the stairs, and boarded the train in total silence. It was five o'clock, and the station had been crowded with commuters, but our train car was relatively empty. On the seat next to me, someone had left a newspaper, this free one that they hand out on in the stations. I glanced down at it, and then stared. I picked it up to look at it more closely, not believing that what I saw could be true. As I looked at it, a sick feeling spread through me. I opened my hand and watched the paper fall to the floor.

The train came to a stop at the next station. "I have to get out of here." I told Dank.

"What? Why?" He said, but I didn't answer. I moved for the door.

The date on the paper was January 17th. It was Augustus Waters' eighteenth birthday, and I had forgotten.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

If I were a healthy person, I probably would've run out of the train, up the stairs and out into the rain. But cancer had robbed me of my ability to make a dramatic escape, among other things. I walked down the platform as fast as I could, but Dank quickly caught up with me.

"Hazel," he said, his strides matching mine. "What's wrong?"

"I forgot my boyfriend's birthday."

"You have a boyfriend?" He asked.

"He's dead."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

We were silent for a while. We were at the base of the stairs that led out of the train station. I looked up, but it seemed way too far to climb.

"It'll be okay, Hazel," Dank said, and he awkwardly patted me on the arm.

When he said "Okay," the word that had belonged to me and Gus, I started to cry. People in the train station stared, and then looked away quickly, pretending not to. Dank didn't try to hug me or anything like that. He just stood next to me and waited, which was nice.

Sometime later, we sat down on a bench next to the river Thames. I had somehow made it up the stairs, and out of the train station, to this spot. It was cloudy now but not raining.

We sat there in silence for a while, watching the grey river flow by. I both wanted to talk and didn't want to talk. I wasn't sure if I should. Would it be disloyal to Gus to talk about him with Dank? Why weren't there any set rules about these kinds of things? Finally, I got to a point where I couldn't not talk. I needed all the stuff rattling around in my head to rattle around in his head for a while, too, and then maybe we could figure it out together.

"My boyfriend's name was Gus," I said. "He died in July. He had cancer. He was seventeen." Oh how I hated the past tense.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know that doesn't help, but I am."

I nodded. "All Gus wanted was to not be forgotten. He was obsessed with being this hero, with leaving a mark on history. Honestly, I thought it was pretty annoying, but I still want to honor his wishes. And now I didn't."

"You didn't forget him," Dank said. "You just forgot what day it was."

This was true, I guess. I had lost track of the days during our search for Other John, and they all blended together. And I hadn't had a chance to look at a calendar this morning, but it wasn't just that "Yeah," I said, "but I haven't really been thinking of him lately in general. I used to think about him all the time, but now I do less and less every day. I don't want to forget him. But it gets harder to remember what he was like, and how it felt to be with him. I can't keep track of what was real and what wasn't. And I'm afraid that I'll forget what his voice sounds like" I paused. "And then I think, well, what if there is an afterlife? And what if he really is watching me? And what if he's horrified by what he sees?"

Dank took a deep breath. "But do you think he would want you to just sit around thinking about him?"

"I don't know! Everyone is always talking about that. What Gus wants! What Gus would want!" I was yelling, I realized. "Sorry. I know you're just trying to help but, God, it's so frustrating. How can we know what Gus wants? We can't. Maybe Gus doesn't want anything anymore."

"You mean he's in a place where all his wants are met?" Dank asked.

"I mean he's nowhere," I replied. "He's nothing."

"I like my version better."

"You don't even know him."

"Yeah," Dank shrugged. "But I'd like to believe in some kind of pleasant afterlife."

"It's nice idea," I said. "I'm just not sure it's very realistic."

"But life isn't very realistic either."

"You mean the odds that there would be a planet that would support life and all that?" I asked. "Yeah, I think about that, too sometimes. But then I think, well, it did happen, and if it didn't we wouldn't be here wondering about it."

"No, I didn't mean it that way, although that's true, too. I mean…people. And the things they do." He paused, thinking. "How people have this weird desire to do things, like make music or art, that don't have anything to do with their survival. Sometimes it even hurts them, or makes their life worse. Just look at Other John."

"Maybe they just do that because they want to be remembered, like Gus."

"Maybe," Dank shrugged. "But I don't think so."

I thought about the dreams I had, like seeing the Swoodilypoopers play live. I didn't want that because I wanted to live forever. So why did I want it? Where do these things come from?

"I guess I'm just never going to know what Gus wants," I said.

"Probably not" he agreed. "At least not in this life."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. I don't think there's an answer for that. At least not a straightforward one."

"Sometimes it really pisses me off when people say, 'This is what Gus would want,'" I said. "I feel like they're really just saying what they want. Or when people say we have to honor his life by doing this and that. What does that even mean?"

Dank shrugged.

"I guess all I can do is remember him. But then what good does that do?"

"It might not do him any good, but it might be good for you. Or not."

I nodded. "Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn't."

It's a balance, I realized. Knowing when to hold on, and when to let go.

So I would let go of some things: Feeling guilty when I didn't remember him, feeling bad for liking Dank. But I would hold on to some things, too: Gus's voice when he said my name, and when he said "okay." Amsterdam, all of it. The first time he looked at me across the Literal Heart of Jesus. I wouldn't remember and forget because I thought it was what Gus wanted. I would do because it was what I wanted. I guess maybe that sounds selfish, but I couldn't keep trying to read the mind of a ghost. If I did, I'd probably end up like that crazy lady in the thrift store.

And maybe it wasn't selfish at all. If I let go of Gus a little, I would have more time to care about the people who were here now, the living: My parents, who had been worried about me, I knew, and Dank, and anyone else I might meet.

We sat there for a while longer, watching the boats go by and listening to people walking on the path behind us. Then the sun set and it got too cold, so we took a train back to Cal and Joe's apartment, where they were waiting for us with pea soup. After dinner, Joe ran out to a store down the street and bought some cupcakes and candles, and we all sang happy birthday to Gus and danced to one of Cal's songs. It was a party, I'm sure, he would've liked to attended. Maybe he didn't get to and maybe he did, but I know I did, and I was glad for that.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

The next day, we returned to Swindon. The morning after Gus' birthday, we decided that we might as well give up on our search for John Green. We had found him, and he wasn't coming back. We also agreed that we should probably tell Bald John about it, so that he would know the whole situation.

"Honestly, I knew all along what you were doing there," Bald John said when we went to his house on Thursday. "Or, at least I guessed. But I didn't try to stop you. I should have, but I wanted Other John back so badly. And if you went, then he wouldn't get mad at me."

"Yeah," Dank nodded. "I think he might be mad at me for a long time."

"No," Bald John shook his head. "John doesn't hold a grudge."

"I'm sorry he didn't come back with us," I told him. Bald John had dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in a long time. He glanced towards the front door every few minutes, even while he talked to us, as if he was hoping John would come strolling in. I also noticed he had left John's bag of soccer stuff by the front door. His cleats looked like they had been shined.

"I know," Bald John said. "And it was nice of you to try. But he'll have to come back on his own." John paused. "Wait, tell me the whole story, though. What exactly you said. What he said."

We did, switching off. I did a great impression of Maureen, I thought, but Bald John didn't laugh. When Dank repeated what he had said about the charity shop not being important, Bald John cringed. And when we told him, again, that Other John said he was never coming back to the team, Bald John just shook his head.

"Well, I suppose I should rest up for the game tomorrow," Bald John said after we were done. He went upstairs to his room and didn't come out for the rest of the night. For a while, Dank and I sat there at John's table, stirring our tea, sometimes talking, sometimes silent. When the evening rolled around, we made spaghetti together and left a plate outside Bald John's door. It sat there, getting cold. I went back to my hotel room around nine, leaving Dank in that empty, dark house.

The next day was surprisingly bright and sunny, but our moods did not match the weather. That day, Swindon Town was scheduled to play their arch-enemies, Manchester United, one of the best teams in the league. To say that Swindon had never won against Man U was something of an understatement. It would be more accurate to say that Swindon consistently suffered crippling defeats under Manchester United. A game against Manchester United could leave a Swooligan depressed for days. Studies showed that alcohol consumption in Swindon Town went up by 120% after every Man U. match.

While the team got ready, I waited with Dank outside the locker room. I couldn't go in because, you know, naked guys, and Dank was nice enough to sit with me. Inside, I heard someone speaking, and I imagined that Bald John was trying to raise the spirits of the team. A difficult task, to be sure. None of the players thought they had any chance of winning. To quote Ginger Rampage, who I had overheard that morning, "It's more likely that Pericard will be crowned Queen of England."

Then, suddenly, I heard a lot of shouting coming from the dressing room. Shouting, and maybe singing. Then someone inside – it sounded like Fitz Hall – let out a loud whoop. Then I heard something else, a familiar voice, but I shook my head, thinking that I must have imagined it.

"Did you -?" Dank asked.

He didn't have to answer. I nodded.

We both looked at each other, and then in the next second we were on our feet, running into the dressing room, where I saw two surprising things.

Surprising thing number one: Cteve Austin was naked. I looked away as fast as I could, and he quickly grabbed a towel, but I saw enough, and it was a sight I'll never unsee, no matter how much I want to.

Surprising thing number two: There, standing in the middle of what appeared to be a Swoodilypoopers group hug, with his teammates draped all over him, was Other John Green.

"John!" Dank exclaimed. "You came back!"

"You bet your rocks he did," Merick Merick growled. "Knew he wouldn't really abandon the team. Get in here, you lot." He grabbed us and pulled us into the group hug. I tried to stay as far away from Cteve as I could.

A few minutes later, after everyone had calmed down a bit, Dank and I got a chance to talk with the John Greens. We found them in a quiet corner of the locker room, with their arms around each other's shoulders.

"So you came back?" I said to Other John.

"I did," he said, smiling at his husband. Then he looked back to me. "I missed this too much. I started dreaming of football. And then I realized that maybe I've already found my place in the universe. And sure, I might not be saving lives, but I'd like to think I'm making them a little better."

"You saved me," Bald John said quietly.

"Don't be such a sap, John," Other John teased, squeezing his shoulder. And then he shouted, to the whole room, "Now, who's ready to play some Swoodilypoopers football?"

Everyone cheered, including me.

Dank and I took our seats in the front row of the stands, in almost the exact same place where we had met just days before. If you told me then that I would become friends with the John Greens, that I would go into their locker room and hug them, that I would go to London, I wouldn't have believed it was possible. Realizing this, I wondered what else was possible.

The game began, and almost immediately Manchester United scored. One of their players stole the ball from a Swoodilypooper and passed it up the field, where their striker was waiting to kick it into the goal, past Ricardo Burna's flailing hands. The Manchester United fans cheered, and on the field, the players hugged each other and high-fived. And sure, the Swoodilypoopers do the same thing when they score, but when Man U did it, they just seemed so smug.

"It's alright," Dank said. "We're just nervous. We'll get it back."

A few minutes later, the Man U players took another shot at the goal. Ricardo caught it, and soon after Other John took possession of the ball from one of their players. He started running up the field, and we thought, this is going to be it. All of the fans watched in silence. Other John got closer and closer to the goal, and then he shot the ball, and for a second, it looked so perfectly angled, there was no way it couldn't go in. But it hit the post.

"It's okay, John," I screamed, as loud as I could, even though he probably couldn't hear me. "Just get back in the game!"

After Other John's missed goal, the players seemed to move with a new determination. They were quicker, more in sync with each other, but Man U was still faster. They scored again, twenty minutes into the game. Then, one of the Man U players got too close to Ginger Rampage, and their feet tangled together, and Ginger tripped. He fell, and I could see him yelling at the other guy. Ginger stood up and gave him a little shove – a tap, really – but it was enough to get Ginger a yellow card. Bald John did not look pleased.

"Oh, come on," Dank said. "This is crap. They're just psyching themselves out."

"At least he didn't get a red card," I said. "To match his red hair."

The game picked up again, the ball going back in forth between Swindon and Man U, with neither team really getting close to scoring. Then, all of the sudden, a voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

"Hello, and welcome to Hank Games without Hank. I'm your host, John Green, and today I'll be telling you about how I realized I could never stop coaching the Swoodilypoopers."

"What?" Dank exclaimed. "Coach is back?"

On the field, Bald John called a time-out, and all the Swoodilypoopers stopped and stared up at the announcer's box. Coach John Green came to the window and waved, and the players waved back and cheered.

"You guys are awesome!" Coach said over the speakers. "And gosh, I just missed you so much. I realized I can write a novel and still be your coach. In fact, my novel will be even better if I coach you, because you guys inspire me."

"Wow," I said to Dank. "This guy is a cheese-ball."

"Yeah," Dank nodded. "But he's our cheese-ball, and we're glad to have him back." I nodded in agreement. I didn't know Coach John Green that well, but he seemed like an alright guy, aside from the whole talking to himself thing. And it was clear that he loved his team.

The match resumed, only now the Swoodilypoopers were on fire.

The first Swoodilypooper goal was scored by none other than Leroy Williamson, who scored occasionally. Today was one of those occasions. As the ball left his feet and swooshed into the net, the crowd jumped and screamed and began singing a song. "Leeee-roooy Williamson," they cried. "He scores occasionally!"

Next, the Swoodilypoopers scored a series of goals in quick succession, with goals from Bald John, Fitz Hall, and, out of nowhere, Merick Merick. Unfortunately, Man U also scored a few times, too.

Soon the game was all tied up in the eighty-seventh minute. Man U played tough, and they played dirty, and the Swoodilypoopers were exhausted. They had put up a good fight, but the human body can only take so much before it just wants to lie down and take a nap.

"You can do it, boys," Coach John Green called out. "Finish it. You guys are finishers, all of you."

"All we need is one shot," Dank whispered. "Just one." I closed my eyes for a second, trying to calm my nerves.

All of the sudden, the crowd gasped. I opened my eyes, and saw that one of the Man U players had lost control of the ball. He kicked it just a little too far in front of himself, but that little bit was all it took. Bald John swooped in, like a beautiful bald eagle, and snatched away the ball. Then he was off, flying – nay, soaring – towards the goal.

And right across from him, on the opposite side of the field, was his partner in life and in love, Other John Green.

"It appears we have ourselves a famous John Greens cross," Dank said giddily.

"Hush," I said. "I'm trying to watch."

And then it happened, just as it had happened so many times in the years since these two had first set foot on the Swindon County grounds, in a way that was so perfect, you might think that it was meant to be, that it had been designed by God himself. If you were into that kind of thing. Bald John passed to Other John. Other John was ready at the goal. The ball landed right at Other John's feet, and he stepped and kicked it to the goal. And he scored.

"Oooh, he's a finisher! He's a finisher!" Coach John screamed into the microphone. He sounded like he might be crying.

On the field, the John Greens ran towards each other, and Other John leapt into Bald John's arms, who caught him in a tight embrace. Bald John spun around, spinning Other John. It was really quite amazing, considering Other John was a full-grown man.

I turned to Dank and we exchanged those "Can-you-believe-it?" looks, and then I grabbed him into a hug, too. And then I kissed him, light and quick, and then we kissed again, and all around us people sang and screamed.

We pulled apart and watched as the referee signaled the end of the game. Other John, now back on the ground, pulled Bald John in for a kiss. The Swoodilypoopers jumped up and down and hugged each other and high fived. The John Greens broke apart to go celebrate with the rest of their team, and there was yet another group hug.

Dank and I followed the team towards the locker room, and then waited outside. "Hey Ging," I heard Voluptious Pericard call out. "Bow down to your queen, lad!" A few minutes later, the players and their beloved, beaming coach came back out. "To the pub!" they cried.

And then after, after the singing of sea shanties in the pub, after the hugging and dancing and a few cartwheels from Fitz Hall, after fish and chips and toffee pudding, after I got ten hugs from each of the John Greens, it was time to go home.

I stepped out into the cold, crisp night, the laughter and chatter of the bar fading slightly but still audible. The sky was clear, and I looked up at the stars. It was the kind of night that made me think of Gus. I closed my eyes and said a little prayer for him, wherever he was.

The bar door opened and Dank came out. He was going to walk with me back to the hotel, but he had needed a few minutes to say good-bye to his brother.

"All set?" I asked him.

"Yeah, we're good," Dank nodded. "Bald John is drunk on love and maybe Tequila. I'm not sure he understood what I said, but at least I tried."

I nodded. We started to walk, our footsteps echoing off the cobblestones in the quiet night.

"So you're really going home tomorrow?" Dank asked.

"Yep," I nodded.

"Sure you don't want to stay?" he asked. "Maybe Coach would make you assistant coach."

"Oh, that could be fun," I joked. "And then maybe I could also help him right his novel. But really, I need to get back to my parents. And my doctors."

"Alright," he nodded. "So I guess now isn't really the best time for us to start dating?"

"Probably not, no."

"But maybe someday?" he asked. "If I end up in the States, or you move here, or we both end up in Zimbabwe somehow."

"Maybe someday." I confirmed.

"Hazel," he said. "Did you just make a plan for the future?"

"Oh no," I smiled. "You tricked me!"

But he hadn't. I knew exactly what I was doing.

The End


End file.
